You wear your pride
like armor fused together
by ignorance—
unwilling to yield,
even as truth cracks beneath your feet.

You don’t see it, do you?
Eyes welded shut by your own certainty,
your pulse syncs
not with justice or wisdom—
only with the echo chamber
of your favorite headlines.

The leader you hate
could cure cancer
and you’d call it a cover-up.
The one you love
could burn the Constitution
and you’d call it cleansing.

You’ve built a faith
not on evidence,
not on hope—
But on the poisoned stem 
of a cynic’s crown.
Just look at you,
hunting for any flame
to prove the world’s on fire—
even if you have to light it yourself.

How miserable must life be?
How much must you crave
the role of a victim—
to dig through ashes
just to say,
“I told you so”?

You ignore the laughter
of children,
the healing,
the quiet victories
of neighbors who still believe
in something besides
the downfall.

I know—
peace doesn’t get clicks.
Unity doesn’t trend.
Hope doesn’t fit
your doom-scrolling gospel.

So here you are—
a prophet of collapse,
preaching to a choir of cynics,
while some of us 
choose to build bridges
from the bricks
you keep throwing.

Wake up!
Not everything’s falling.
However, you might be—
and too proud to notice.

Temp 96 degrees
Feels like 103 to me

It’s a 

Perfect day for a swim

It’s a

Perfect day for ice cream

It’s a

Perfect day at the beach

It’s a

Perfect day for an ice-cold drink

It feels like 103

But they say it’s only 96 degrees

Q: Why does it take ages to get your S&*t together?
A: Well, that’s why life’s so long.  

we’re fishing. i don’t even know if you know how to fish, but we’re fishing on a dock in the searing summer sun, lazily kissing each other’s faces and lacing loosely together our bodies as lovers do; haphazard, precarious, familiar, routine.

much like the way it feels to hold a graphite club in my hands, leather gloved fingers interlocking, a counterbalance of clubface and weighted grip. how my muscles sing at the rhythm, the momentum of arms cocked back, L to L, swinging, crashing down in a near perfect arc. o how that pale dimpled ball collides with the sweet spot. perfect, solid, pure and right as rain. it’s an old habit, this muscle memory and recalled recollection of what composes a natural swing.

so many ligaments, digits, tendons, trains and trails of thought intersect at the pinnacle of this club-and-ball sport. you’re the seven iron in my hands and i’m not even worried about missing this shot. i predict you’ll carry 120 yards and roll the rest, though secretly i hope for 134. (one time it rolled out to 150, and ever since i’ve prayed for a few extra lengths.)

but back to us casting our rods, tiptoeing the edge to peer through murky water at the little minnows as they race past, catching flopping sunnies and taking them off sharp silver hooks. we glance over the glossy water like wide-eyed children; insatiable appetite for discovery—that sweet, innocent kind of wonder i now feel in moments of prayer, or when we’re looking wholly at one another.

nonchalant, i bring this up to you, and learn that you do know how to fish. but you’re from chicago, well really an hour from chicago, and i guess my assumption is that illinois city boys might not know much about bluegills or golf. you continue to prove me wrong.

if my hypothetical rusty seven iron slices deep into the beyond of a red-staked water trap, would you cast a line after that, too? i don’t always hit straight, it’s true. but then again, you feel right in my arms and my heart and i flash back to a solid shot.

honeysuckle haze
o’er hazard pond. swing, miss, fish
for white blots near shore.

It is in you and in all things of you.
It is in me and in all things of me.
It is in the comingling of our forms,
The design of our union and
The architecture of Providence.  

It is in the strands of your hair,
The mantle of the divine articulation,
A raiment of sunbeam and starlight.  

It is in the gentle curve of your hip,
A sinuous perfection of design and grace,
A study in the duality of balance,
Our shared radiance of life,
From your center to my periphery.  

It is in the imbued joy of your being,
And the sharing of jubilation,
The Celebration Song spoken among friends,
Our disposition of happiness
For which I thank you.  

It is in the story telling,
The Myth making,
The lesson learned and given,
The parable of the soul,
The fable of our lives to be
Passed on out of memory.  

It is in the lifting of burdens,
The weight easing,
The unlooked-for companion,
The defying of gravity,
The banishment of weariness,
The ceasing of toil and
The delight in doing.  

It is in the sorrow sharing,
The season of fading flowers,
Lillies and Roses,
Our jointly held abode of anguish,
The soothing, healing touch of
My kindhearted grief warden. 

It is in the shadow of your footfall,
A grace given to the leaves of grass
Beneath your lithesome tread
Unto the depths of the earth,
The living, breathing rock.  

It is in the timelessness of stratification,
The eons of evolution,
The mutable saturator of life
An inevitable plan of forethought.  

It is in the clever witted laugh,
The turn of thought inspired by divine fortuity,
Words we speak in unison,
The angel’s breath which becomes our unison voice unawares.  

I perceive my love for you resides in all these things and others besides. 
I count them daily in multitudes of
Forms, shapes, processes and designs
Which impart to me a joyful elation.
They appear before me as a secret covenant
Which has been given to me alone
Out of the depths of time before history,
A wonderment before my sight.
I cannot name them all
Lest I am forever celebrating your praise.  

Yet my prayers always are for you and your joy.
My prayers always are a Celebration Song sung to the heavens,
To announce my delight in knowing you. 
My prayers always are a benediction of thanksgiving.  

As the Celebration Song is in you and in all things of you.
As the Celebration Song is in me and in all things of me.
As it is in the comingling of our forms,
In the design of our union,
The architecture of Providence.

Today
I revised a poem   
                     
                         by erasing every                        
                         word insincere.

Now the poem consists only of white space.   

Reach out to humans
Key to your past and future
And connect by heart

* 8 of 9 strategies for a creative life

We’ve always been connected,
Even if by a thin line,
Same schools,
Same town,
Same circles,
You’ve always been in reach,
Two steps away from me,
But when I left town,
So did you,
And when I came back,
You stayed there.

Now when the black trucks pass by,
I look,
Knowing you won’t be there,
Are you happier far away
Or do you miss me like I miss you?

profusion of decorations
rooms cluttered
             paintings,
                  photos,
                     statuary
closed-in dark oppressive interiors

new places have cautious effect
on me
I take-in and process
          all details in setting
                   internally

I react quickly
                     yet process information
                     deeply
                             slowly

if too much sensory input
           for me to process
                           I freeze from overstimulation

                  I am aware
                    of being
                 outside the
                    given
                 situation

            overstimulation
dreadful experience for an introvert

                    I withdraw
into myself
feeling
         frozen
                 in place

physically
     I am present but not
tuned into my
                surroundings

                           vision blurs

tension spreads
          throughout my
body, especially
   neck and
shoulders

                        knotted stomach

                        rapid breathing

cold to touch
    I become emotionally
                  numb
just want to be
                  home

such experience can
                happen
even in midst of family and friends

I attended social gathering
      family friend’s house

Upon arrival
        I walked into multitude of modern artwork
                  drawings
                      paintings
                          statues
        on walls    in the corners of the room    even the dining table
and instantly
came to a standstill

                                    assaulted
more sensory detail than I 
                                   could handle
physical effects of
      over…………stimulation
                                               hit me

felt like I was there but
               not there

like proverbial square peg attempting
    to fit round hole
    I was outside of space
       occupied by others
                around me

I was overcome……by sense of
                                             shrinking

my inner voice assailed me:
                              PULL IT TOGETHER THIS INSTANT
                   ACKNOWLEDGE WHATEVER IS BOTHERING ME
                                                    LET IT GO
                                              THEN MOVE ON
despite my best efforts to appear otherwise
                    others saw my distress
they asked me in worried tones
                                 “Do you feel okay? Is there anything wrong?”
I found every thought
              every action
                         an effort
difficult to concentrate
negative self-talk
                                             I convinced myself
                               ruining the moment for everyone
told myself I’m a bad person
                               just not normal
such behavior irrational
perceived I’m always
                      on outside looking in

narrowed my field of
                                    sight

reduced
           onslaught of
             visual input
mindful breathing: decreased
              my stress level
brought temporary reprieve until
      I found refuge in
               spacious
               well-aired
               well-lit surroundings with
             minimal sensory stimulation
in solitude I recharge      breathe freely      just be
                                    in the moment
these actions allow me to inhabit
         the space I occupy and
                      be outside
                              no
                          longer

I knew the day would come,
When someone would see you
With a lovely new girl,
Of course, her eyes so blue…

Didn’t think you’d proudly
Introduce her to my friend
Of course, she’s gorgeously
Unaware you’re pretend

I was waiting for proof,
Of a beautiful “her,”
Replacement, an upgrade,
Just what is her allure?

Fears creep in, wondering
Will you stay “good” for her?
Is she the one that will
Change you, and be your cure?

Unsettled, with either
Outcome; This I admit,
Can’t root for the demise
Of one more innocent… 

Insane, the nerve you have,
Head high and unashamed,
Unapologetic,
Lite fires, leave the flames 

Burning all that you touch,
So delicate at first,
Supercilious grin,
And love bomb ’til she bursts

Does her smile melt you?
Or do you just tell her
That? Painting your picture,
Where reality’s blurred 

I guess I’m still haunted…
And now, by the blue eyes
That I have yet to see,
Let them be your demise

                    Then maybe I’ll have peace