"He who approaches the temple of the muses without inspiration, in the belief that craftsmanship alone suffices, will remain a bungler, and his presumptuous poetry will be obscured by the songs of the maniacs. "

-Plato, from Peter Wilmot, in Diary, by Chuck Palahniuk

I am a: poet to the core
incessant believer in something more
than this.
My life is just a crutch for destiny
but the crutch could break
and the tragedy is in the fact that fate always shows up late.
My emotions are a horizon on fire
They are overzealous.
Simultaneously bulimic/anorexic
while the belly protrudes in distension.
Malnutritioned down to a shell
i'm waiting to stop this fast,
and begin to rebuild this frenzy
before I crash.
I'm watching the sky fade
from rainbow to beautiful
but the sky never really fades...
it is temporarily diminished
at which point the countdown to another gorgeous sunset begins again
that does not stop till it's not unfinished.
it's so hard to see in the dark,
but the warmth in the hope of the light of sunrise
keeps the essence of living afloat,
in a sea of prolonged negativity,
i'm drowning in untapped sensibility
that left untouched goes to waste
and we as a species seem to be in a chaotic haste
to find out what happens at the end
so we forget that we're alive and focus on the fact
that one day we wont be
disengaging any temporary state of obscene serenity
to embrace the oxymoronic tune of anarchy
against everything that is quiet
because anarchists fear silence
and so do we.
with our neverending ever-present drone of
our reliance on electricity.
we've lost the wisdom of the knowledge
of how to just be.
as each day ends
so diminishes my hope for a cultural recovery.
i suppose i need to focus on everything i must grasp
to expand on the concept of me
Delve deep into the concept of This...
I have questions that persist:
Do I die after asking every question as it pertains to this external life?
Or consume in myself what embodies my strife?
And
Is selfishness such a sin?
Or is it curiousity that is
the right means to the end?

(Poese Questions; December 2005)

Dancing on the edge
walk the dotted line
across the windblown sand
desert storm intensity, ceaseless...
precarious tranquility
just around the corner from chaos
i'm almost there, on M.C. Escher's stairs...
leaning into the wind over the cliff
visions of my broken form
on the black wet rocks below,
somehow it soothes me
and scares me to no end.
i'm en pointe on the fence
in slick toe shoes
laced up tight
i feel numb and ethereal
simultaneously silent and screaming
embrace eternal indecision now or never
tiptoe on the ink drawn lines
all daylight and night
passionately dancing on the edge.

(Dancing on the Edge; October 17th, 2005)


I am absolutely soaking wet...

...from the rain that is.
get your mind out of the gutters, but only if you want to.
it's always at least partially your choice
innuendo makes life interestingly fun
like spitting watermelon seeds at random people's
heads...knees?
eat me...drink me...I'm a tripped-out upside down Alice
stuck staring through this looking glass
if Alice had dark hair and green eyes that change color in the rain.
speaking of getting wet...
I'm anti-umbrella,
I'm not sure I even like the word.
Takes the fun out of everything...
Umbrellas, I mean.
Falling rain helps my soul grow.
I'm that valiant little elm tree seed.
That exotic clinging vine that holds all the
aspects of my life together
like glue-encased hands.
let me dry and peel me off in a single hand-shaped piece.
keep it together.
then sticky things up and do it again.
speaking of the rain...
i'm a contemporary ballet dancer
floating in the mist, i'm a junglist.
tip-toeing on the edge of balance
in precarious contemplation
as to this way or that or none i do not know
sitting in the rotating ever faster center
of a compass. cross-legged of course.
i've no sense of direction in this weather, or ever
as I draw my map,
plotting my course by the stars even though it's 4:59 pm
I'm gently projecting my thoughts in a unknown trajectory
praying for some decent feedback
and all the while completely unconcerned as to the opinions of others, save for those I love, whose' contributions
whether in words or advice-filled looks
I treasure like falling glittering stardust
in my outstretched fingers
make me fly.
sharp fingernails scratching at the surface of discovery
diving headfirst into experience
all of life with passion and shimmering fervor.
I am a nomadic being from the start
a spirited wanderer, as of yet bound
by a chain to a stake in the middle of a huge field,
watching my candleflame burn out.
i'm working the stake free a little at a time
to release myself of obligation would be that one near-perfect thing
I need to be complete.
inhibition ran off with naivety about a year ago
now i'm ready to go
when the time is right...now.
i'm a firecracker with a lit fuse that
stretches over three continents
and many swirling crazy windswept seas.
I'm that sturdy little sailboat
with a tear in my sails that is nothing a little love can't fix.
i'm no less of a free spirit than
the autumn breeze at the very second of equinox,
the butterflies that are reborn every single day
and that five-year old girl over there in the puddles
wearing a fairy dress and tiara with yellow galoshes.
i'm having the time of my life for the course of it all.
there are no bad days,
only necessary obstacles strategically handed out
so that we may appreciate a few brilliant and ethereal moments.
lest we be overcome and spoiled with nonstop perfection.
human nature is to grow jaded after repetitious luxury
and that is something I shall never be.
so give me my trials, my hurts and seemingly gut-wrenching sorrows
and my pain, so long as you give me the rain,
for I know now that I will make it.

(Wet Little Elm Tree Seed; October 2005)

"This then is life, here is what comes to the surface after so many throes and convulsions. "
-Walt Whitman

"No woman is mature till she can sleep with a`man once only, by his choice, and not be bothered by it."
- Alice Denham

"'Why is it that some butterflies have beautiful colored wings and some are dull and plain?'
'The plain ones were born of parents who didn't know how to paint.''"
- Anais Nin (Seduction of the Minotaur)

"I need no warrant for being, and no word of sanction upon my being. I am the warrant and the sanction."
-Ayn Rand

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
-Anais Nin

"Remember that beauty comes from within...Be kind, noble, generous, well-mannered, be true to yourselves and your friends, and the soft lines of these tender graces and noble virtues will reveal themselves in the face. . . we cannot be one thing and look another. . . . There are indelible marks in every face showing the real life within."
-Elizabeth Cady Stanton

"Do not hate those who devour you with their eyes, but love, and by loving, make yourself beautiful beyond their power to desecrate it."
- Alice Denham