Into The Will Be

Into The Will Be

The hallway is tight,

dimly lit as if

I am venturing into a dream…

something that is of the is

and of the is not.

The walls look concrete,

but there is warmth at my touch,

it carries an organic feel

that speaks to me of something


The air moves around me

and I feel

the open breath of a passage.


Am I the swallower?

Or am I the swallowed?


It all comes to an end

in a few feet of darkness.

I grasp the latch

hinged on the possibility

of the other side. I twist.

Push through the change

and the door swings,

opening to a looming hole

that runs ahead

to dim into a dark nothingness.

Anticipation and energy swell…


Time, to play…


Stepping into the advanced expanse

of a broken dance,

the exhausted love of lost romance,

I delve into the abundant possibility of I.

The question: where do I go from here?

enters my thoughts

and is immediately parried away

with the playful childish laughter of mocking

stupidity arriving with an answer,

for I can already see the directions.



and steeped into the limitlessness

of the everywhere.


And it is, everywhere…

And everything is, possible…

And it is all real…

all true, and all good



When the question enters the now moment

I don’t search for directions any longer

but for a stopping point

on the revolving roulette wheel of destinations.

For so many are arriving and none are ending.


I hear the low squeal of blockage and finality,

as the door behind me slams with a great boom-click.

At that same moment the echo

from the deep darkness ahead of me

comes with the sound

a thousand by a thousand and one latches releasing

doors to cracking open. The squeal and moan are

by hinges that have not been used.

They echo throughout the labyrinth

as something new being born.


Each is opportunity

that reveals other doors,

other paths, hallways and mazes,

spilling light and dark, colored shades,

sounds from the outdoors,

conversations of life

spill with laughter and arguments of all kinds.


I listen at the opportunities opening,

the sounds bringing images of sand

broken waves crashing with the screech of gulls.

Others scream into the open air and still

others whisper

with the closed droning ohm

of library and museum knowledge.

There is playful adult cooing

from behind some doors

of bedrooms bloom with the scent of

impassioned pheromones

urging a body to respond.


The air breaks from somewhere and with it

odors of the future come spilling out.

It scent sweetened with the culmination of everything.


I am aware of the door behind me.

Aware of where it leads,

and what is on the other side

I am aware it is unlocked and welcoming

and I smile, because back is not forward.

Without effort or thought

I take my first steps into the future matrix

of the never-ending where I will live,

and where I will thrive.



Giant Urinals In A Hipster Bar

Giant Urinals In A Hipster Bar

The walls still

hold the lingering odor

of popcorn and butter.

A memory of its first life

as a popular cinema


showing films

of Gable and Monroe

in the thirties

when lard popped it

and the butter was real.


Reels lit the silver screen

fresh from the studios,

in the hopes that Dillinger

might come by for a show.


In the seventies

The dawn of the Home Box Office

killed it,

though it held its charm,


into a showcase

living as a diner theater


before it was murdered.

Its body dismembered

leaving half the lobby,

the restrooms

and the back office.


The remaining

held a stint as a comedy club

before transitioning

to a simple bar

with a backroom stage.


Now, live music holds sway.

A hip and swank bar

serving smart cocktails

holding a few bottles

of sarsaparilla underneath

for the sake of auld langsyne.


Butter and oil still emanate

as long feted

cinema ghosts linger

in the old brown mahogany,

and still, hope remains

for gangsters to swing by

chew the fat with a drink

then step out to Coppers

waiting to spit a grand hail

from an old Chicago Typewriter.

Love Poem For The Future

Love Poem For The Future

I see echoes of you

in longing stares

from the faces of ex’s

and in subtle glances

from a friend’s fiancé.


I hear the reflection of

your voice, in their words

tortured by a possibility

that stalks,


beneath the shimmy

of street corner profiles.


I am a ghost in your reality,


a precognitive vision of your memory

lost to heartbeats stolen

by sand dripping under glass.


I search and wait

as you stroll through a churchyard

dress dragging, a ghost

white veil soiled

bare feet caked with grime

waiting to vanish in your mist

and I know

the burning fusion of alone

that speaks of forever.


I feel the torture of tragedy,

Shakespearian and Greek

as the gods laugh at our folly.

but I must write this now

because the words have seized me now.



this does not cheapen my thoughts

when I present these,

for I loved you,

long before we knew

and dreamt of the us

we have become,

as our spirits danced

across the sandman’s sea.


We have not met,

and you do not know me,

but when,

if I or my voice is lost

to the breath of time

you will read.

A Four Letter Word

A Four Letter Word

There is a new four letter word

my mother uses it as well as pops,

my grandmother and entire family.

It wasn’t an embarrassment

when I learned it.

I use it all the time,

and so do you.


It speaks of togetherness

and points fingers

to inclusion and lumps

it even speaks of destruction.

We don’t hesitate,

but the implications are bigger

than the time it takes to say.


It isn’t fuck or love,

the best or the worst,

and it is not hate

But I fucking hate

that I love how it polarizes.


Generalization is its definition,

the stated fact of a situation.

It has started and ended wars

and it is doing so right now.


The word is THEY,

and you should think about it

before you say it,

or before it’s too late.





The car was all flat, satin black

with tinted windows and gunmetal rims.

It was born in the fifty’s,

got a new lease when the century turned,

and it sounded as if it was very angry…

all the time.


Its grille smiled with teeth of black chrome

and it wanted to chew up everything in its path.

It did own the whole fucking road!

I never knew its name, it never told me,

but I called it Victor when it was mine.

Freedom Bid

Freedom Bid


By the ringing explosion I stumble

through the haze of a sulfurous mist

thick with burned smoke wafting into my nostrils.

There are faint screams, some laughter,

another round of sparkling colors.

I remember China had the first fireworks.

All of them were white.

Europe brought the pigments

which cause the brilliant colors seen today.


There is another explosion, someone screams.

I stumble forward, catch myself with my freehand

and continue moving close to the ground,

serpentine, there is another explosion.

Something strikes my head, my back,

I stumble again fighting to get away,

blood is dripping onto my shirt,

down my pants as I clutch the body

trying to reach the edge of the chaos.


Something zings past my head,

strikes and explodes in front of me.

Another explosion, someone cries out

and I wonder if they see the blood.

Someone is lighting another cannon

as another goes off, too close

my ears ring, where am I?

I hold tight to the body, stumble again.

“Fire in the hole!” someone cries,

but the smoke is too thick to see.

Where is my neighborhood?


I look down at the nub, wonder where his hand is.

He hangs limp, passed out in my arms.

Another explosion, I am deaf, someone grabs me.

He is taken from my arms,

They begin to scream at the sight,

a child, maimed on this day of freedom.


The smoke doesn’t clear my head.

Music rises and I hear troops sound the attack.

Bagpipes assume a gentle moan of sadness

down the street after the funeral

and I feel for friends that have met their ends

bleeding into the earth for greed and fear

fighting over lands possessed

by those strangers they called enemies.


Turf is a name, burned from the first wars

as tribes fought to rule those near enough

to control then across the sea,

from the back of a horse.

Armies are created in the declaration

of what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine.




I don’t like your culture and that too must end.

I don’t like your face, your eyes, or your skin

and in their wasted lands we begin again

to force-feed our regurgitated beliefs

digested and refed a thousand times over.




One day we will tap into that which separates us

like thumbs from the apes and we will create

with the other instincts a new age

of renaissance will grow from the stem

of gray matter that resides mostly unused

behind the face of fear to fight the fight

which we portray to others hiding

in the rocks and hills grunting to survive

in the waste, after the governments

have crumbled to dust

and the machines begin to rust


But remember this…


Einstein knew, “World War IV

will be fought with sticks and stones.”





You are all of me,

filling my senses,

take everything

in emotion

and let me

worship you

for a moment.

Just for a time,


for time is all we have

running short

and I wish to spend

every moment

to my last with you.





I must speak,

so when I wake

alone and lonesome

I will not have the guilt.

Wrought from not knowing,

and never trying,

consumed by fear

holding my tongue.

the endless depths

of never spoken silence

rest heavy.


I want to be with you

on a mountain top,

watching a golden sunset

drift into infinity.






I will look at you

like it is the first time

remembering jitters


and tongue tied

running down

to my stomach

wrapped in knots

holding my breath

on your every last

spoken word


days when each kiss

came nervous and slow

igniting every sense

until they explode.


All of this and more

someday. But today,

I just love you.