The Silent Soliloquy, 2008

All the kings,
and all the kings men,
couldn’t put me together again.
There’s no such thing as Peter Pan,
and no such place as Neverland,
where children without worry play and sing.
That’s not the world—cruel maze,
with judgment it’s reward.
I hope they have a cell-phone in purgatory,
so I can call my mother,
high in Heaven,
and tell her I got what I deserved.

If only I could somehow see,
the Wizard of Oz for empathy,
the door at the end of the roadway
for me is closed;
no Neverland, no songs, no dance;
just God’s voice and his song.
And other men, like me, long gone,
silence is the only song,
whose high pitch is Eternal.

How beautiful is everything,
even lice and snakes,
devil in the mind is gone;
all is still, quiet,
the void,
silence, the only song,
on the jukebox, played by God,
and the man in boots,
a cowboy hat,
never runs out of change.
And the devil is the busboy,
at the bottom of the stairs,
whose intent is the will, the soul,
and how wayward with the hour goes;
a brief delay, this disillusion,
before the curtains close;
and the drapes, what light,
will of the night dispose—
leaving nothing but the Sun.


Kaleidoscope, 2008

Dream carousel kaleidoscope,
faces, places, colors, things,
shift in and out and all about,
where long dead singers sing.
Kaleidoscope, the mind, a whirl,
faces of the world unfurl.
The raining pictures never stop,
images of faces, clocks.
A kid fishing on a dock,
his father not there, but he appears,
Someone else, the young child hears.
Be this, be that,
something worthwhile;
you worry too much.
Don’t panic now.
Just tap your foot and smile.
Images of twisted hands,
two sets of footprints in the sand,
one man walking with himself,
in his mind with someone else.
Someone never there,
though in the mind, where,
the kaleidoscope breathes in and out,
the long burning flame,
forever remains,
no water puts it out.
And so the kaleidoscope goes I see,
an image of a man like me,
locked away inside a glass.
His eyes wide open, fading fast.
Knuckles, hands, love, and hate,
two different things when separate.
Wrinkled hands cupped, held to the air,
as though in some great despair,
and listless hoping, as he looks,
around him the formless kaleidoscope took,
the images of the life,
and flashed them by the mind.
And in there, they’re crystal clear.
The meaning, though is not;
a slideshow of a thousand images,
is what I’ve got.
The kaleidoscope, the mind at rest;
the good the bad, the worst, the rest,
goes by and bye and waves, to lay,
in the shallow grave of yesterday

The Lines, 2008

Take one look outside these lines,
where there is much to see.
All the beauty I have seen,
will pass me by as though a dream,
and here I stay, still locked away,
a prisoner of the lines.

And here I’ve been, for my whole life,
walking between the lines at night.
I’ve poured my mind into the lines,
and here I’m trapped, for you to see:
the beauty as revealed to me.
Here I’ll stay, still locked away,
inside the lines, not free.

Outside the lines are reasons but,
to fill the lines again.
And when I saw the world go by,
as lightning by me in the sky,
I had to grab my pen;
the beauty of the world, for me,
is a poem to begin.

Outside the lines, I live, and lie,
though while inside I do not die.
I walk under a poor description,
of the evening sky.

With nothing poetic in my way,
just one more of the endless days—
subtracted from our time to stay;
those lazy days, they go their way,
say, “hey,” and then say, “bye.”
They pass us by and hear our cry;
though never stop, nor wonder why.
In silence arrive, and in disguise,
say goodbyes and go their way.

“Hey,” they say, the eye that sees,
who translates our tragedies—
he who dictates, with a pen,
our glories, failures, virtues, sin—
reads it once or twice and then,
a second better draft begins.
Outside the lines I think of when,
and where I last lay down my pen,
to write away the eve;
then at night, by pale lamp light,
another verse of song I write.
Another song to sing, on page,
when outside no words convey,
how I was trapped in lines this way.
Outside the lines, I look, and see,
the ever incredulous skeptical me:
a young man awake too long,
at five a.m. he writes this song,
himself but twenty-three.

He writes before a court,
with a faceless judge and jury.
Perhaps he this believes;
he calculates the variables,
of approaching destinies.
And where he’ll be and what he’ll see,
and how he’ll write it down, to please,
those who can dismiss with ease,
all of his sublime melodies.

When he writes, it’s not for him,
no, not for him alone;
it is for those who stand around,
whose once long frown,
can with his verse turn upside down,
and be gladdened by his song.
Out of place, and out of time,
walks the man between the lines,
whose gold is never found in mines,
but in corridors of mind.
And at his core, his lonely own,
he only wants to sing a song.

To sing a song, and merry make,
those who from a poem might take,
joy and bliss, and sorrow too,
when they get trapped in these lines too.

A heartbeat skipped, I blinked, so my,
dreams are trapped inside the lines;
dreams are rendered lines again,
and all the words I wander in,
far off lands, fall into sand,
like Pompeii and Babylon,
the lines keep falling,
on and on.

Déjà Vu, 2008

Blessed are the ruined,
whose lives have gone awry;
for at one moment, in their life,
they smiled and watched the sky.

Blessed are the ones long dead,
their debts and troubles paid;
who suffer no more, the endless war,
at peace lay in a grave.

Blessed is a child in pain,
his fettered limbs,
and weakened state;
For soon he’ll see the majesty,
of Heaven’s golden gates.

Blessed are the dying men,
who all their long life gave,
to those in sin, again, again,
the Road to God is paved.

Blessed are the sufferers,
who shake all night and day,
because one day, come what may,
all their suffering goes away.
Perhaps one day, someone may find,
and read these sincere words of mine,
and to me say the same:
better luck next time, my friend,
there’s no need to explain.
Silence is the voice of God;
soon with no refrain.

The Lighthouse Has no Shore, 2007

I never got to see,
My living dream beside the Sea—
or be with dreams fulfilled.
A thousand miles,
a thousand smiles,
blind with outstretched hands;
marching forward in the dark,
I walk to Neverland.
Night’s veil falls before my eyes,
a carousel of dreams go by.

The land of dreams goes round, and
and flutters by the eye,
a sobbing face lined carousel.
Dreamt of by a man who lies,
on his back, with his eyes closed,
looking at the sky—
for a story just to tell,
some love me lullaby.
There I lay, and fantasize,
out in the field where I can lay,
with nothing left for me to say.

Just idly rhyming in my head,
as Sol our candle slept.
Awake, still, I lay in bed,
creating verses in my head.
Yawning, our Golden candle sleeps.
In this dream of mine, I look—
in places and in time—
because somewhere, some lady fair,
rehearses all her lines.

In this dream, I often look,
with no idea what to find.
Is it just redundant circles—
inside my broken mind?
But in this dream,
from where we are,
a thousand miles from shore.

The lighthouse light,
shatters the night,
a golden field at last.
The ocean’s sound,
and birds around,
make music as we pass.
The lighthouse light,
just out of sight,
attaches to no shore.
Sailors never find the land,
but look forever more.

I never made it to that sea of blue,
to be with dreams come true.
I walked forever in the dark,
under the seven skies,
with a portrait of a saddened angel,
imprinted on my eyes.

And in that glimpse, her forlorn smile,
I felt that way myself.
Halfway there, I called her up,
“I’m not here,” a woman spoke.
“I am just a dream—
A subconscious visual,
a desire not yet seen.”

Like San Francisco, on the page,
an image to me tells,
line after line, it strums, and strains,
as letters from the story rain.
And we the story, yearn, in vain,
until the urges we restrain,
and kill desire that remains,
our hope no more maintained.

And if I made it there,
what then?
In Elysian Fields forever spend?
Or would I arrive, only to find,
no reason to be there, in my mind,
and walk a thousand miles,
in anger, to forget,
what I was looking for—
no matter what I’ll look for more.

Knowing that I looked for something,
though what it was I did not know.
And if I ever have a chance,
I’ll steal a ticket to the Heavens,
and in secret go.
I’ll stand there in those fields,
with meaning found,
all answers knew,
with nothing left for me to do.

Amnesia steals the memories,
like apples plucked by Eve.
Though even there, I wouldn’t care,
or have a thought of me.
I placed a call when I arrived,
but Juliette lost her phone.
Unfulfilled again, in shame,
Romeo walked home.

While on that road, God placed a call,
I didn’t hear it ring.
He didn’t leave a callback number;
He didn’t say a thing.

In that dream world far away,
where I dreamed that I could play,
and from this dull world hide,
where all anxieties subside;
to make it where I wished to go,
to be there in San Francisco.
I saw the lighthouse,
slits of light,
but never saw the shore—
and bounced around, as in a storm,
just to be tossed by more,
where in the pale night sky,
light stole by in narrow slits.
Just glimpses of a dream once chased,
by amnesia stole away—
and inch by inch it seems to take,
fragments of my angels face.
Leaving me with opaque words,
describing sounds I never heard.

The beauty of the lighthouse,
although it had no shore,
was marvelous to see.
It’s brilliant light, that shined all night,
in brilliant golden beams.
It was enough, itself alone,
to make us lost moths flutter on.

Bye, the Blankets Wave, 2007

1: For my mother, Dorothy,
who in grey mornings walked alone,
where bye, the blankets wave,
and blow;
a not so good good-bye for her, whose
spells a life in lowercase;
a normal life not on the news,
or Wikipedia page.

A plain old woman, her long life lived,
in service to the ones she loved—
in perfect selflessness she gave,
her never-ending love.
For the ones she brought to life,
her life for them was gave;
without a blink,
without a thought,
at God’s feet her life was laid;
for our redemption coupons paid.

2: Every Christmas, while she worked,
a hundred miles away—
at the mill, six days a week,
twelve hours every day,
in pain so we could play;
she did it still,
so we could feel,
happy with the red mesh stockings,
her employers gave away.
For her kids on Christmas day,
a gift was given by the mill,
just for working there.
She even spent that one day free;
we laughed without a care.
Every year on that day off,
our tiring mother shared,
a big red stocking full of toys,
so delicate and rare.

We got ping pong paddles, checkerboards,
candy, and other games.
None of those lifeless gifts compared,
to her smile which did not change.
On that rare and lone day off,
our tired mother played,
with us and her porcelain dolls,
the only things for herself she paid.
She had Scarlett, Gone with the Wind,
and Shirley Temple, too.
A thousand dolls, all shapes, all kinds,
Never to age, or hair go frayed,
pretty with us they stayed.

And I think, though with much pain,
on the day that fades her smile,
I’ll buy a thousand baskets,
for the dolls she loved a while;
and leave them on a thousand doorsteps,
no explanation with no note—
just like orphans left to grow.
I sometimes think she thought of us,
as dolls in her curio.

My brother and myself,
shortly after birth,
were left upon a doorstep, too,
to be adopted by our grandma, who,
gave all the love we’d ever need.
We always had enough,
each other, we still do.
Only if the dead could read,
I’d write a note to father,
who with Dorothy adopted me,
and simple it would say:
“Thank you for being better than,
my real father could have been,
had he not abandoned me.
Thank you for not leaving me.
As I will leave our mother’s dolls,
to be loved as you loved me,
unworthy of it all.”

3: Mother married, age seventeen,
so young an age, she’d say,
but she was faithful, every day,
and her care would never fade,
a reflection of compassion cast his way.
It all was real, and always was,
she loves the same today;
And every year, October fourth,
she leaves flowers on his grave.

With him alive, she often smiled,
at all he had to say.
Just two weeks before he died,
scrabble we all played.
The last piece on the board he laid:
same as my mother’s word, almost,
my father spelled closer.
My word confusion ran beside,
six letters down was laid an S,
whereby it my brother lay the word,
five letters, it was guess.

For half a life before my birth,
they loved, and danced, and smiled;
until he caught pneumonia,
and two weeks later died;
leaving us with an absence felt,
a man no longer there—
can be touched in dreams, almost,
in mind I see him there.

He’s warm again, and smiles, alive,
my happy mother by his side.
He asks if she will dance with him,
in this recurring dream I have;
she always shakes her head, says yes,
and puts on her wedding dress.
Peering through the window blinds,
I watch them dance a while outside.
And watch until my dream is done,
my father’s deathless encore sung.

After he went into the ground,
leaving sad faces all around,
my mother held her screams.
Until she got home, when all alone,
she at his portrait screamed;
so incoherent in her grief,
anguish for us to see.
“I would have gone instead of him,”
she often said to me.
A different road, we all must walk,
a million paths to the same place,
no good bye, the blankets wave;
though wave as slow she goes,
further down life’s obscure road.

4: After he left, she often sat,
in the living room alone;
up all night, she waited, quiet,
for her Herman to come home.
She never left, never went out,
often at the wall to shout,
those sleepless nights away.
And at dawn, she played their song,
and pensive walked her way.

In the morning, when she woke,
her children fed and bathed—
she puts on her garden hat,
and lonesome walks the shade,
a tiptoe down a leave strewn hall.
Checking plants at season’s end,
with Entae, her loving friend,
spent their mornings in the garden.
How often now she follows too,
those dim mornings, in the dew.
How often mother must have felt,
the specter of her cat with her,
a step behind her, keeping pace,
walking bye, where blankets wave.
Peaceful enough while walking slow,
take the cash in hand, let credit go.

5: By and bye, those blankets blow,
frayed quilts on the line;
she brings them in and folds them, neat,
and humming, takes her time.
When she’s done, her children eat,
if food is left, she’ll have a bite.
Happy and fed, her children sleep.
Relaxed, she sews, in quiet,
a modest quilt, with Nobles on it.
She grew up making clothes, like this,
and for us kids they always fit.
They unravel at the seams,
as do all the hopes, and dreams.
As father time unceasing walks,
people come and go;
and for each a blanket blows.

For Dorothy, they waved,
sometimes to just say hey;
as by she walked them every day.
When she came in,
took off her hat;
she tried to sit down and relax,
or play some game with us.
She never wrote the word desire,
on long life’s scrabble board,
just over and over and over and over,
love, love, love, love, love;
a few dolls here and there, enough;
herself no big concern.

6: One time, Easter Sunday,
we children got together,
to buy her a pair of shoes.
When we gave the gift to her,
embarrassed, she refused.
She asked to know the price,
and when she heard, she said,
“My old shoes are fine, enough;
Get something for yourself instead.”
“This is for us, as well,” I said. “When
you’re happy, so are we.”
When I was that naïve child,
I never saw the day,
when I would look so fondly back,
and have so much to say.

Those shoes she wore till they were rags,
in the house, and at the mill,
cutting high grass in the hills;
tending to tomato vines,
planting flowers time to time.
I’ve yet to see a photograph,
of mother by herself,
where she didn’t look so sad;
but in pictures with her family,
her expression was so glad.

A smile made possible by my father,
when mother’s killed himself;
and she’ll follow her lost loves,
and love like no one else.
She’ll follow them into the ground,
and get her rest at last,
no goodbye, the blankets wave,
in silence she walks past.

Blow, oh, blow, those blankets wave,
to those on long walks to the grave;
Bye, oh, bye, the blankets blow,
the bird of time rests on the vine.
When the blankets in the drawers,
have long been put in place,
the bird of time, once on the line,
flies in the air, away.

7: The Christmas fire, in the dark,
our shed was set ablaze—
our screaming mother, in her gown,
with a hosepipe sprayed.
Sometime after midnight, by herself,
she killed the fire—
and never asked for help.
With her hosepipe, and her will,
she did not wake us up.
Had we not heard her frantic shouts,
she would’ve had no help.
But our mother always fought,
the fire by herself.

The day after she woke on time,
to give our gifts, to see,
the only of her selfish joys,
her children full of glee.
Our family together, there,
gathered in good cheer.
Thanks to her, our family quilt,
has never had a tear.
Nor has it frayed, like mother’s hair,
or unraveled to this day.

All her children, grown up now,
still come to visit, play;
we’ll sit on our wooden deck,
and chat our days away—
happy to be together on another normal
Every gift for her, a doll,
soft porcelain, painted white,
with soft red daubs on painted cheeks—
her singular delight.
“Thank you,” she said. “I like them all.
I’ll put this one in the hall.”
So every morning, when I walk by,
I see those ageless angels cry.

8: A word almost, for Dorothy,
if ever were there one,
her synonym was radiance,
whose aura is the sun.
Made sublime, that smile,
when all the world was right.
That feeling, was itself, to me,
Sol’s eyes twice as bright—
too beautiful to know,
melancholy runs, and goes,
bye, oh bye, the blankets blow.

When one who gives, till they’re no more,
no more walks by newborn sun,
no wandering on the shore.
She sits instead, and nods her head,
in the living room, by the phone,
with a crossword in her lap, alone.
She hears the sound of childhood sleep,
their breathing sound a tranquil lull,
her perfect bedtime song,
and the loser loved them all.

The illegitimate Son, who set,
himself a thousand goals to prove,
they didn’t adopt a fool;
who now with letters tries to hide,
what lives outside the dressed up rhyme,
where the real world lay.
Where nothing special ever happened,
no prophet had to say,
nothing poetic, or profound;
a woman sleeping by the lamp,
smiling without a sound.

With the blankets folded, in their drawers,
her life’s purposed planned—
off to sleep she goes, and smiles,
and peaceful cups her hands.
Asleep before the loser with his pen,
who stumbled in the room,
to beg for pills, so not to feel,
too much pain to sleep.

Instead to find his Dorothy,
deservingly at peace.
A completed crossword, in her lap,
by a dusty bulb, to see,
the last word written in the blocks—
was thirty-nine across,
a six letter scribbled word, almost.

That was the key, that moment there,
that unlocked a door inside my mind.
I walk inside, and there I find,
King Oedipus Rex,
whose subtle complex,
in the Throne of all my Misery sat.
Made once the bastard child, who fell,
prideful in the arms of hell.
And like them lived, as lice to feed.
Giving fancy to his shame,
and insecurities;
in one breath, my mind at rest,
bye go my ego games.
There I attended, and awoke,
before Dorothy who had not spoke;
Then after that, I grew to be,
a bodhisattva wannabe—
who in his meditations know,
the meaning of the word almost.

Then for a moment, standing there,
I no longer had a care;
the strings of life for me aligned,
and for a moment, the divine,
put her holy lips on mine.
And all my life,
my wrong, my right,
flooded my eyes the color white.
Nirvana drowned which once was fire,
and my anxieties expired.

And all questions,
for which no answer came,
under a carpet labeled God,
I swept them all away.
There went the questions,
why need to know?
Outside of time, I seemed to go.
If I saw God, I’m sure I’d say,
“Thank you, God, for that one day,
when what you did, or said, for me,
was, “Let there be a Dorothy.”
Or if I spoke to Jesus,
I think that I would say,
“Better luck next time, my friend,”
smile, and go my way.

9: If only there I could remain,
and never again, see, hear, or say,
the normal things of every day;
I’d have nothing left to say.
But who am I to say, who sees,
his shadow on the page.
If only in nirvana I remained,
and never saw the problems of our day,
I’d have nothing left to say—
no more misery to sell,
and no more stories left to tell.

But who am I to say, who sees,
the sky a picture on the page for me;
something whose existence,
translated with my pen—
misery to beauty, so others get to see,
not as it is, as it’s described,
the things I see with my mind’s eye—
And if they can’t, let them prescribe,
a contact lens to see things clear,
as stoic as they are, so they can see,
that which is too beautiful for words.
Not through the windows with eyelashes,
but with the eye, that looks inside,
themselves and in there find,
what it is inside the shell,
a fragment of the universal self.

Would all our happiness compel,
the self our tragedies to tell?
The story of these beings who,
lived on this dot, pale liquid blue,
marble in rotation, around a candle light.
In what note could we for God remind,
the fondness we express for those our kind?
A fondness for our own kind we relive,
a brief excursion, caught in time,
between eternal states,
this too is a word almost,
to describe what can’t be seen;
not in reality or dreams.
Serene and tranquil sings the void;
no taxes, death, or bills to pay,
no telemarketers or days.
Just that high pitched ringing noise,
made when our ear cells die, and then,
becomes a sound not heard again.

None by Sand Away, 2007


One minus one,
then there are none,
to run wild-eyed and cry for time.
One plus one,
Sum of the Sun,
Sol’s warm cradle by the vine.
Though in their place,
outside of space,
where make believe children play—
those moments in the end are taken,
none by sand away.


One undone stares at the sun,
for Sol to look their way.
Until then they seek another,
themselves only to find.
Staring too often into light,
could make a man go blind.
A thousand words it seems to take,
to convey real love with rhyme.
Though shameful words hide in a box,
under time’s carpet tucked away.
When all the other leaves have blown,
and silent turn their saddened songs,
like the abstract things they say—
in the end once more are taken,
none by sand away.


Ever if they were to rise,
beyond the confines of the skies,
and into space, for one embrace,
for one kiss, their helmets touch,
and silence spoke the glass;
in their place, the other’s face
confused and silent they drift pass.
Their unheard mirrors kiss,
and they left longing sway.
And when it’s done, they disappear;
the Narrator reads the day.
In the end they both are taken,
none by sand away.


Into the timeless whole where goes,
their castles in the sand,
where smoke drifts careless by the light,
and Karma has no plan.
There are two who dance alone,
in the ballroom of the mind—
shouting at the walls between them,
writing poems from time to time.
Translating the soul to sound,
in English to convey—
a portrait painted on the page.
Regardless of how many rides,
for the carousel are paid,
One gets off as one gets on;
Samsara’s footprints fade.


So leave the memories in the jar,
and while outside, look up;
two of one, blank stare, the sky.
Always close inside the mind,
in sense and touch too far.
Once loved a dream, by none forgot,
by no one kept alive—
trapped together in a circle,
like a one winged butterfly.


Where they play, no mind can stray;
or make it to that place.
At the end of the day, come what may,
bright as all the sun’s her face.
Brighter still when eyes are closed,
the third eye opened wide.
At the end of all those tangled roads,
the memory subsides.
Even if they get to stay,
in the ballroom without time, and play,
with no more never in their way,
they’ll laugh the endless nights away.


He wouldn’t leave;
she wouldn’t stay.
Their footprints in Samsara fade.
Inside the ballroom wearing but,
a plumage covered dress,
at the bottom of the stairway in distress.
Transfixed, she looks, with laden stare,
for a man who isn’t there.
Merry go round of dreams, a stream,
of faces ’round and round,
go by much faster than the eye.
As one song fades, another plays,
unsung, a lulling bye.


No sound is made by mirrors kissed,
when they’re placed face to face.
Eternity caught in a glimpse,
infinity, both ways.
Aeterna holds a light for us;
unborn she sings and plays.
She waits there without a care,
her bare feet in a stream,
never knowing she is but,
a lonely person’s dream.
Holding a dandelion she smiles,
and, wistful, blows the seeds.
They fall onto the water’s surface,
and scatter with the breeze.

One Summer in the Sun, 2007

Candle in the music box,
spotlight upon the show,
light the paths which once were dark
So ballerinas in the box,
will know which way to go.

For their summer in the sun,
one yawn before the winter’s breath,
a ring of smoke blown through the gates
of nowhere.
And life, the beautiful nothing,
a brief candle for its own sake lit,
begins to blur, to fade,
another song from the record played.
Once so loud, and now a drawl,
becomes a whisper in the hall.

Once to live, to wonder why,
to rise and fall under the sky.
Summer rises;
summer sets.
One summer in the sun is all we get.
The sun to smile,
the sun to fade:
a single dash, between two dates,
poor written by the hands of fate.

One moment caught inside a bulb,
our destined hour to abide.
with all the living things trapped inside.
Lighting for but a moment,
snow scattered on the desert’s dusty face—
glimmer in the hall and go their way.

One after another, into the sky for miles;
a blind caretaker, with a hammer,
forever walks the aisles.
His calloused feet to scratch the path,
to on occasion tap the glass—
releasing light back in the air,
to Saturn’s seat without a care.

Destiny behind her veil will play,
with all us vessels on the waves.
Slaves to the lighthouse, in the rain,
Miss Destiny, the ball and chain;
until she folds, and counts her pay,
and, in silence, walks away.
No more moments from the box to take,
from the fountain by the waste.
Life, brief candle,
one summer in the sun.
Tomorrow and tomorrow,
then there are none.

Life itself, a momentary scream,
amidst the sea of nothing gleamed,
a murmur in the ivy by the well,
one verse in the narrator’s Book of Tales.
The title of our story is,
“One Summer in the Sun,”
Tomorrow and tomorrow,
then they are done.
One chance to bloom,
one chance to shine;
to rise and fall under the sky.

One summer in the sun in winter’s way,
a brief season our life’s passage does delay.
All of those who to the light have went,
when their pocket watch of time is spent,
like moths, turn brittle in the air,
and silent strike the ground.
The sun rises.
The sun sets.
A summer in the sun,
and then no sound.

The finish line, same as the start,
oh what a nobody has in his heart.
A thousand roads to nowhere,
lost highways to the sun.
The finish line is the same place,
the human race begun.
And in that race together,
we all finish last;
those faceless watcher’s, in the crowd,
recline their heads and laugh.

Again and again, the cars go in,
desperate circles round and round.
Sometimes they brush against each other,
but seldom make a sound.
And blind they pass each other by,
in a tempest tossed around.

Before the blind man, with his hammer,
turns to face your aisle,
laugh with the best of them, and smile.
And this is just graffiti,
scrawled on time’s unending walls,
by no one left for nobody,
a fragment in the stall.
Tangles in the Earth’s coiffure,
for life, our limited time offer.
And the human condition,
the same remains—
never heals and stays the same.

Another verse, another song,
like an old-time sing-along,
by pebbles lost in sand and foam,
who sing alone, and murmur make,
while they their ride on the carousel take.
And then they sleep, once more to dream—
of all the things that flashed by the
patterns in the ivy and their seams,
an arabesque oft told before,
of those who run blind on the shore.
With all of them on their way to see,
the Wizard of Oz for empathy;
the highway is long, how awful to know—
the door at the end of the road is closed.

Let the hands wind up another,
song for the music box.
And let the shadow shapes around the
play till the melody stops.
By candlelight or dark of night,
their path forever paved;
every second of their life,
the same sad song is played.
Again and again, we figurines spin,
a lullaby loud for no one to hear,
turns static into silence, fades,
as dust upon a mirror.

Another poor player, whose hour forgot,
those passionate words on the stage.
Another soliloquy, the sound and the
bit player lines erased.
Characters live; characters lie.
Some do nothing, instead wonder why.
All of them are together lost,
together to laugh and to cry.
Some of them love,
and some of them hate;
some look out, some in.
For a moment fleeting contact made,
another to begin.
There’s no such thing yesterday,
no tomorrow, and no then—
just a now that never ends.

The Robot is Malfunctioning, 2006

We have a problem here.
The robot is malfunctioning,
and the warranty is void.

He’s stuck in an endless loop,
asking the same questions,
getting the same answers,
repeating the same lines:
wrong place, wrong time.

We have a problem here.
The robot is malfunctioning;
the programmer won’t answer the phone.

He’s stuck in the same place,
stuttering back and forth—
wires flicker in his brain.
Disconnected data goes nowhere,
in one side and out the other.

We have an emergency.
The robot is shutting down;
the programmer isn’t home.

Random command lines drift around,
his broken fishbowl brain:
random numbers, random letters,
random things.
The malfunctioning robot repeated the
Wrong place, wrong time.

The Owl, 2006


I was sick, and lay in bed,
and walked alone inside my head.
In the woods I found myself,
looking for someone to help.
Kicking rocks along the path,
feeling dew soaked evening grass.
The twisted trees, they breathed and
as dead leaves in a tempest played.
The night was gray, an Autumn eve,
in Twilight, walking through the leaves,
with a coliseum of selves inside my head.


I tried to sit, and almost falling,
heard confused voices in me calling.
Vertigo—that spin—appeared;
life’s obscure pathway disappeared.
Schizophrenia, I said.
That’s all that it could be.
All those different voices can’t be me.


I’m not so sure that I recall,
whose voice it was that made me fall.
One said, “yes,” and one said, “no.”
I didn’t know which way to go.
The true path appeared, and there it lay,
and I walked the other way.


Above I heard a night-owl call.
“Who,” said the owl, whose shadow falls,
on the path in front of me,
atop the twisted shapes of trees.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever known,
myself amid the jam-packed dome.”
“Who, who, who,” cried out the owl.
“Who, who, who are you?”
I thought a moment, then I said,
“Just a kid who’s sick, in bed.
What is it that makes me ‘me’?
Karma’s equations, destiny?”
Schizophrenia, I said.
That’s all that it can be;
just another fevered dream.


“Who?” said the owl, above my bed,
and I withdrew into my head.
To find myself, amidst those talking,
to the coliseum I went walking.
For my own self, for me to meet,
time shifted quick beneath my feet.
“Where am I?” I called aloud.
To me turned a faceless crowd.
“You are there,” a self spoke up,
and pointed to an empty cup.


I crawled inside and found a child,
at a sea-shore, cold and mild;
with his back forever turned,
the noisy world behind him spurned.
“Are you me?” I had to say.
“Some mental game of chess to play?”
I tried to move, but ran in place,
never did I glimpse his face.
“Who?” the owl called again,
that endless searching to begin.


The child said nothing, looked to the
a solemn song he had to sing.
He held a flower, dead and broken,
from him to me soft words were spoken.
“It’s pretty though it’s torn in half.”
He dropped the flower, and listless, laughed—
looked at it—dead— amidst the grass.
He turned to leave, then looked at me,
and didn’t make a sound.
His face was painted like a clown.


“That isn’t me,” I shouted back,
and looked across the sea of black.
My face had on a painted smile;
to hide the real face for a while.
“Let me out,” I said, aloud,
and found myself amid the crowd.


I walked into a crowd of me,
and found a man with mushroom tea.
“We’re all one,” said the old man,
extending the cup with his left hand.
“Take a sip,” he said, and smiled.
“But you might want to sit a while.”
I downed the cup, sat on the floor,
watched even more come through the
Holy men, mystics, and saints,
versions of me with no complaints.
No stress, regrets, anxiety,
just quiet and tranquility.


I saw agnostics, atheists too,
they screamed until their face turned
I was searching through my head,
back at home, collapsed, in bed.

Schizophrenia, again,
a division of the self in men.
Divisions of the self in me,
fevered dreams, insanity.


With his back turned to the room,
a child held a smiling blue balloon,
looking at a lighthouse painting,
down the hall, high on the wall.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked,
remembering that moment past.
He said, “for my father to come home.
I’ve been waiting all night long.
What do you think that I’ve done wrong?”


I saw his painting, then I knelt.
In it such loneliness I felt.
A painted puppy in a cage,
excited with his eyebrows raised.
Looking out, and waiting too,
’til someone to love,
from here, or above,
that empty archway to come through.


The balloon popped; the young child rose.
It was dawn; the lighthouse closed.
On his way home aloud he sang,
like a prisoner with a ball and chain.
He sang, “This little light of mine,
I tried to let it shine.
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.”
All the way home he sang, and frowned,
then disappeared into the crowd.


On down the path, I heard a laugh;
snowflakes danced the air.
In the snow, a young child rolled,
smiling without a care.
On the ground, he rolled around,
making angels in the snow.
Until night came, he played and sang,
and then he had to go.


When the owl asked the schizoid who,
he really didn’t know.
He walked about, and had to shout,
for his real self to show.
Inside a dome, like ancient Rome,
he called out for himself.
Then to the sky, whose alibi,
from heaven never fell.


Then I saw another me,
just seventeen or so,
sweating in his bedroom
with a cigarette aglow.
Hovering over another page,
writing as though in a rage,
and mumbling things aloud.
Three sleeping pills, with three refills,
is enough to quiet the crowd.


He stubbed the cigarette, exhaled the
lit another, and then he wrote:
What force is it, that all through night,
holds open our eyes?
Is it because we’re trying to see—
life’s mysteries try to hide?


The memory fades; the owl appears,
to torture me again.
“Who?” he said, above my bed.
I turned not to reply.
Then that force, without remorse,
pulled open my eyes.
“How much do you have to know?”
The owl had never spoken so.
“Do you know enough to sleep?
Is that all you want, a bit of peace?”

“That’s not it at all,” I said,
hallucinating in my bed.
“Just some silence in my head.
The other voices talk all night.
About the world, what’s wrong, what’s
They keep me up ’til morning light.
Now you, foul bird, you do the same.
Leave me here to scream in vain.
Take your questions from my head,
and leave me here alone in bed.”


I closed my eyes, again to hide,
“Just try to get some rest,” says I.
But invisible hands, who’s benevolent
pried open my eyes.
Forcing me, to look and see,
the light that tries to hide.


The same thought pattern, once again:
Who why what where how and when?
The force again, that works at night,
keeping sleepy eyelids wide.
Floods the mind, with things sublime,
memories, dreams, people, and things,
and turns real beauty into rhyme.


The schizophrenic talk a lot,
most often to themselves;
and this, they say, is the best way,
for the self-tortured to find help.
What about the other kind,
with writing as their anodyne,
who try to know themselves by rhyme?
They ask strange questions, answer too,
self portrait as a déjà vu.


These words, themselves, they only help,
when words themselves are something
When there’s nothing left to know,
after the coliseum’s closed,
when there’s not a hint of light to show,
will the owl stop the questions?


“You might miss something;
stay awake.
Breath by breath is yours to take.
No need to waste your life in bed.
That pressure in your chest, and head,
are the hands that work the etch-a- sketch.”


The owl fluttered, as if to leave,
I offered, then, my last reprieve.
“Fine,” I said.
He turned his head.
“All I need is me.
Just two pills, one cigarette,
a line or two of prose to set,
and then I’m off to sleep.”
The owl said, “Repeat, repeat.


Just a second, take a breath,
you schizophrenic etch-a-sketch.
What is it that you would, if could,
choose for you to be?
An artist, writer, someone of worth,
a performing prodigy?
Do you live just to impress,
when, ‘that’s so clever,’ is the best,
thing they’ll ever say?
Is that what gets you through the day?”


“Or would you dance just like a clown,
whose hidden frown,
a public face, worn to replace,
who you are in truth?
Or would you all throughout the day,
retreat into your past to play,
with yourself, in the back room,
dancing a phantom rigadoon?
Is that how you’ll live, and how you’ll die,
a detective whose suspect is why?”


“I don’t want to change at all,” I said.
“No more longing, nothing else,
Just who I am, just me, myself.”
“What?” asked the owl, now in the air.
“I just wanted them to care,
to know I lived, to know I breathed,
to know a lowly louse has dreams.”
The owl was silent, made no sound,
then asked me what I would say now,
to those who knew, and those who cared.
“Children write it, here and there,
my final words, ‘Brandon was here.’”

There is No Neverland, 2006

There is no place for them to go,
where kids forever play—
to never die, or wonder why,
under the sun they lay.

By the Sea, who’s soliloquy,
is but the sound of sand.
In their dreams, the children sing,
sweet songs in Neverland.
There’s nowhere for us to go,
where kids forever laugh.

Where clouds in slender listless trails,
drift by like sleepy carousels,
and children watch them pass.
Every night, by candle light,
to pray, they fold their hands.
and sing sweet hymns, for Seraphim,

to take them to Neverland.
There is no Neverland for them,
where they forever play.
And their fair skin, will soon begin,
to peel and flake away.

Like breath against a mirror fades,
the leaves against the wind are laid,
and left to lie, like Peter Pan,
afraid to tell the children,
that there is no Neverland.

Sisyphus Unemployed, 2006

With all his questions answered,
Sisyphus relaxed;
that massive stone,
he pulled forever,
finally rolled back.

In peace he watched the pebbles slide,
with no Hades on his mind,
nor dancing Persephone.
With his back,
turned to the hill,
he thought of memories alone.

To the abandoned rock he glanced,
and sighed, began to laugh.
With Sisyphus redeemed,
God Zeus, it seemed,
had been impeached at last.

Nessuna Miseria.
No more purpose,
but to live, enjoy;
Sisyphus Unemployed.

After further contemplation,
of the struggle he called home,
he started to lament—
the beauty of the hill, the stone,
grey skies and punishment.

Con niente di lasciato,
he sighed, and on sore legs he rose.
Peace of mind was not enough.
The stone pulled Sisyphus from the dust.

In tuo adventu,
suscipiant te martyres;
the stone on him took hold.
And once again,
his misery,
so beautifully rolled.

Nessuna Miseria.
No need for purpose,
just to be;
Sisyphus thought, c’es la vie .

The Crying Equation, 2006

The equation cries.

No answer.

Press END to cancel now.

She looked at the watch again, at 12.
At 1 she drank some gin;
at 2 the equation cried again.
Hey You was the ring back tone.
Out there on your own,
no answer, says the phone.

Press 1 to hear his voice.
7 for the inbox.
Or leave a message at the tone.

The equation cries,
“One eight oh three
Oh nine for four,
Oh three, oh one.”

She read a text again.
“Imagine I’m in front of you,” it said.
“Or call me if you’d like.”

The equation cries again:

8 0 3
9 4 4
0 3 0 1

She heard Hey You once more,
before the plastic said,
“I’m afraid I’m not at home, right now,
speak when you hear the tone.”

Press 1 to leave a call back number.
5 to exit.
Or press star to cancel.
Press END to return home.”

One eight oh three,
Nine for four,
Oh three oh one that song—
equals a man who isn’t home.

[1+5 CLR *+17=0(1)-5* END]

The Altar of the Ape, 2005

They’ve turned us into altar boys;
hired angels sing.
They’ve turned us into windup toys,
artificial dreaming things.
They tell us where to sit,
and tell us what to say.
We watch under a ceiling fan,
the Alter of the Ape.

They tell us what is right and wrong,
to the altar make their way.
They plagiarized their angel’s songs,
and bowed their heads to pray.

Give us shelter, give us peace,
you shaved ape we adore.
Give us money, make us need.
You shaved ape, we need more.

They sing their songs for man alone,
the shaved ape and his pomp.
They cheer him when he shouts, and
and tremble when he stomps.

A testament to their greatness sang,
the piano keys twanged off.
The righteous bowed before the ape,
and forgot about the lost.
The ceiling fan continues,
as they continue to pray.
Watch them all destroy themselves,
before the Altar of the Ape.

The Hanger and the Hanged, 2005


The Hangers all were happy
until they became the Hanged.
Utopia was line for line,
not one forgotten page.

There were no words of blasphemy,
until a week before the walk;
when a sleepy preacher,
thought he heard,
a drunk agnostic talk.

“There doesn’t have to be,”
he said, “above us, anywhere,
a God of any origin,
who shows us any care.
No need for Heaven,
no need for hell;
there is no need for fear.
If we all could love each other,
we would have Heaven here.”
These words,
for a sleepy man,
were terrible to hear

“A Commandment broken,”
he rose to shout.
“Contact the office now.
He broke the law.
He must be punished;
that is our sacred vow.”


They took the steps they had to take,
and put the man away.
First in a cell,
and then a noose,
and then a beggars grave;
No one there,
and no one cared.
He played Hangman,
with a word called faith.

The news replayed the tape that day,
broadcast to every home.
They told of his crime and death.
they babbled on and on.
The louse was punished,
The evil gone;
The hangmen reap as they have sewn.

The world is just a prison yard,
where inmates run the show,
and no one is in charge—
where no one dares to dream.
And up above,
the Watchman shrugs,
and nods back into sleep.


Children clapped,
and monk’s applaud;
they marched a fool’s parade.
They themselves,
at last, became,
the Hanger’s and the Hanged.

Within a week, a lost child found,
his way into the Church.
“Excuse me father,” said the child,
“Yes?” he asked.
“I’d really like to know:
why was the Hangman punished so?”

The preacher fumbled, then
thought a moment.
“Because he sinned, my son.
You must not have heard.”
“I’ve heard plenty,” said the
“This was from Father learned.”
He gave the man a book.
Then he took the preacher’s hand,
and showed him where to look.

Thou shall not kill,
the Good Book said.
His holy highness sighs.
He felt despair,
replace the air,
and gave his alibis.

“Thou shall not kill,
the law is broken.
The Hanger will be hung.”
They took him from his quiet home,
and threw him in a hole.
The next day,
with the fool’s parade,
he walked to the gallows pole.


“Thou shall not kill,”
was sung in songs,
within the growing line.
And ten people,
every hour,
were punished for their crimes.
Each Hanging the Hanger
for hanging the Hanged;
the Road to God was paved.

Thou shall not kill,
became the phrase,
painted on their signs.
One after another,
to kill themselves,
they formed the line.
It stretched across the world,
and all the doomed marched on.
Broadcast across the nation,
and played in emptied homes.

The line remained until one man,
began to see the pile.
One Hangman atop another,
into the sky for miles.
He looked at those who died in line,
and at the signs they held.
Then the last man,
in the land,
put the noose around himself.