Time doesn’t heal all wounds

it Closes them over, hides the blood and bone under crisscross scars,

it Fades badges of honor, camouflaged in soft sagging, aging skin.

Memories grow fuzzy as you rest on laurels, feeling proud of survival.

Time makes you Forget,

how to cope with the pain

how to endure.

You are Soft. Weak. Pathetic.

Back in the trenches your mind would explode under onslaught of bullets and bombs


you Weep alone, your delicate little feelings hurt by words.  Words? Really?

You should have stayed in Fighting form you know?

A siren wails….

You know what’s coming

Running out of time….

you hear the engines of then sneaking up on now….

Squealing, Screaming….

Sticks and Stones WILL break your bones.

I’ll give you something to Cry about.

The Big Question

Let’s not bother with that mystic, metaphysical bullshit. I’m not searching for some deep meaning here.
I know the meaning of life, at least mine.

Two little words

The last flame in a bed of orange coals and black ash
Cracked, dusty ground, once a fertile field
The ocean reaching towards the pale, beautiful moon only to be pushed away, again and again and again.

Do you feel constant thirst?
When you are alone, do you breathe out the words in a tiny whisper “I want…” never finishing the sentence, because all you are is the wanting?

Do you collect distraction?
Of course you do, I don’t know why I even asked.

To be satiated
To be at peace
To be average

Nature or nurture?
Do we want because we are, and wanting is what compels us to spread over the earth dropping our spores every place they might grow? Is there a critical mass that will push us out and away, to distant galaxies, currently free of our fungus?

Is there someone to blame? Did Mr. Rogers tell me I was special one too many times? Did I watch too much TV, see too many ads? Was I bullied too much? Was I told how broken I am one too many times by people who were better than me, people who had more?
More money
more love
more beauty
more fulfillment
more sanity
less calamity
less longing
less crazy
less hunger
less empty

to write these words and make sense
to know that you feel the same
to know exactly what the fuck it is that I want
your approval
your love
your life
your experiences
your friends, your family, your favorite food, your nice clothes, your perfect smile, your easy realistic laugh, your calm, your fucking silence, your complacent existence, your closed eyes, your blissful ignorance, your safe delusions

to stop wanting
to be complete
to win
to be finished
to sleep
to die


Pulled in so many directions, chained to ideas and people.

Drawn and quartered, falling to pieces.  Bloody meat in the sand.

With these shackles, what do you know of freedom?

Can you paint me a picture with your hands bound?  Can sing me a song with your Bluetooth attached?

Who do you belong to?  Not yourself; please don’t lie.   You are a slave to an idea that is not your own.

You work your job with no love and no passion.  You go everyday and wish you felt proud.  You don’t, but you do.

You read your New Age inspiration; you dream yourRockyMountaindreams.

Then you see a trust-fund baby holding up a stupid sign.

“This is your life” is says, and you cringe.  You want to stop reading.  You want to find truth in this whitebread, neo-hippy crap.

You want to be one of those thin pretty girls, who are so happy with their $100 a week yoga habit and their raw food diet.   You want to talk to them, but they don’t even know you are there.  You want to be so rich that it is ok to be poor.

“If you don’t like something change it.”

You look at your life, and start counting all the things you would change.  And then all the money it would cost, and all the hours it would take.  You sell your life by the hour.  You sell your inspiration at a bargain rate.

“If you don’t like your job, quit it.”

And eat what?  And live where?  Who will help you when you are hurt and hungry?  Who will be there when you are strung out and alone?

“Open mind, passion, travel.”  Painful words, hurtful words.  Unless you are a bird.

“Life is short.”

Shorter for me than you; hours wasted in a box.  Those who are imprisoned always seem to deserve it to those who are free.

“So go out there and start creating, live your dreams and share you passion.”

You steal a few minutes from your master’s clock, and you create.  You squeeze your dry old soul, looking for a single drop of life, so you can give it away.   There is no pleasure in your passion, no joy in creation.  Only release.  Only anger, only hate.  Only the giving.

Don’t.  It is better to keep your creations to yourself, to look at them in solitude and know that you burned.  To remember that you were.   Hide them in darkness; view them by the light of single candle.     No wants them anyway, but if chance allows your words to be read the unthinkable could happen.  Someone, somewhere could find meaning in your art.  Or pleasure in your song.  Or joy in your creation.  And if that happens, you lose your soul as well.