Just Be

What can I tell you that you don’t already know?

I could say I love you, I want you, or I need you


It means nothing until it wraps around you like a cold pool on a lemonade type of day. 

It won’t grasp purchase until you swallow it like the Miracle Max chocolate covered prompter. 

The message will fall into the void of space, heard by aliens billions of miles away while being mistranslated as, “You are god.”

I do love you as much as you allow.

I want you to be whatever leads to your bliss.

I need you to disregard my judgement while you flourish into your density, I mean destiny.

Quickly now. TICK! TOCK! Time is irrelevant when you can just BE.

The Sun Returns


Grand Haven, MI September 2015 

When the rains came, she retreated to harbor for haven.

The umbrella outstretched in somber funereal black

Allowing the thundering winds while making water craven

to bleach the bearing bones of the burden laden back.

Because it is always okay (or will be), the sun returns

She is gone before dawn with nary a mark left graven

From the ancient predictions foreseen in the almanac

Her gypsy blood would eternally call her the sea maven

The depth of her affection, like the ocean, a partial amnesiac.

Crap from Walfart

​Hey Mister! Let me give you my dollar so I can feed my family the sewage you sell under the guise of low prices.

I don’t know that forcing entire families in other countries to work for peanuts to produce the shit you’re hawking is a low price.

I’m pretty sure that when your employees hold food drives for one another because even they can’t afford your manure, is a low price.

I don’t mean to sound contrary, but hearing your employees stories on gofundme pages while they die in your aisles is not conducive to low prices.

I congratulate you on selling the American dream, made in Afghanistan, Bangladesh  or China, from behind the smoke and mirrors. They don’t even realize they are the goods you’re selling off to the lowest bidder. That takes marketing skills to peddle that crapola.

Aleppo, Syria

Omran Daqneesh
There is a little child in Aleppo born
Exploding waves of violent storm
Raging fires silently call harm
Yet the tiny child raises no alarm.
Ali Daqneesh
This is our child. Our daughter or our son
Our children have now become only one
Innocence bombed in a dawn of mourning
We heard the cries, refused the warnings.
Now we witness our barren crops dead
Help them! Somebody!
We are not what we said.

They are speaking


Tornadic bursts of clarity that light the path so long hidden

Lightning flashes of dervish danced love now bidden

The dialect is moving my feet forward, but

the roots had to reach ancestral proportions

to stretch closer to the stars without distortion.

Outreached hands grip, grasp, climb the galaxies

as Terraria celebrates the gateway rendered of fallacies

Although precarious in balance, it’s to advantage giv’n

that tornadic bursts of clarity pursue the debris forgiven

A visit from Atropos

The time of despair has lost its hold, refusing shaded respite

The grief of absence embalming heart, releasing darkness desperate

Returning the prayers of the wandering spirit, sealed breast and bone

Sending back the wilderness, refusing pleas to roam

The earth collects the debt it’s owed without a loss of haste

Slinking roots memorializing while the stolen life displaced

The plaque above the anchored gypsy reads:

“None are ever lost when their courage is found in deeds.”