I Found Myself


I strike the first blow and the mirror cracks

A small lie, like a drop of food dye 

the lie coloring the crystal waters of my life

like a stain clouding the waters

I strike back, a counter of self hate 

punishing myself for failing myself 

and hurting myself with the hating of myself

The battle rages and the battle field of my heart 

is splattered with mud and misery and a

choking smoke of confusion hangs like a damp 

curtain coating everything 

I circle myself, my body a mirror wreathed in smoke

baptized in hate and sweating bitter failure

I wield words like a sword master, hacking with a lie

and feinting with an ego booster only to sink my sword deep

and twist with hypocrite. 

Words like machine guns shatter the silence as they shatter

my bones; traitor, pretender, user, manipulator

I try to defend with searching, trying and hoping 

but they are torn away like paper houses in a typhoon

I scream my victory, the blood still pouring from the cuts of

worthless and No one loves you

consumed I stab and stab again with hypocrite

Hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite 

the blood fountains from the gaping wounds 

a blood mist consuming the air and leaving nothing

I laughed at myself, hysterically my eyes demonic

the blood pools underneath me and congeals but I 

just won’t die so I laugh, each convulsion shooting red failure 

into the air and coating me

I shake myself and scream at my laughing self

holding the mirror and crying at the eyes crying at me

and carving valleys of shame through the grime 

and falling upwards and splattering my face

I coughed and reached for myself, 

my small fingers reaching for me and hoping for me

my eyes begging, pleading and bleeding for love

needing me to love me and heal me

I look at myself and I see myself in myself 

my eyes are calling for me and I am just so tired

So tired of hating myself and hurting myself because 

I can’t be what they tell me and so I abuse myself 

to make up for not being able to be myself

But I am tired of not Loving myself

So hold myself and whisper to myself words

Healing words that mend the rending 

I whisper Poetry, and Sing and God and Love 

and Journey and Mercy and Live and Be free

and I hold myself and whisper in my ear 

I love You and I accept you and finally I die

and I become myself


After the Storm


I wept bitter tears that day,

my grief a jagged blade of flame

that tore at my insides,

my intestines writhing like maddened worms.

And I could do nothing,

nothing but curl up in a ball and wait,

the pain beyond


That day he broke your heart

as he battered your body.

The purpled black picture painted

on your face and

mirrored on your daughters.

Each false smile and tentative step

a dance lesson from pain


She shattered your life,

torturing you with smiles and gazes

and bleeding you dry.

Slowly, the cuts exquisite, execution flawless

you lose yourself.

A man no longer, but a puppet

on strings of pain


Your stomach may ache with

pain as old as the world

and your soul may thirst for just

one happy moment to color the black

and white world of your

biography of pain.

But the pain must end.

Though the sting is sharo, now,

it will fade to an ache,

and become a memory.

The pain will pass.

I want a Name


Where do names come from?

When the storks drop perfect babies fresh born at where the road of life forks

Do they come with perfect baby labels that grow up to be names?

If so how does the stork bear the weight of a name, a name with all the history and power?

And how do they choose which heavy name to put on which baby as they lay cradled by clouds

Each face cherubic and soft, their spirits naught but a whisper in the wind of time

How do these storks know to give one a soft name like Isabelle and another a hard name like Richard

Though both are identical in perfection

Or maybe the babies choose in their blind curiosity as they crawl and giggle in the unknown, their chubby fists clutching forever clutching until they find a name

I wonder how do the storks carry such a heavy weight and travel through the world of impossibility and brave the winds of time to reach the forks of life’s road

But we all know that storks don’t exist except for in our minds where we conjure them to explain away the things we are too young to grasp

So now I ask like when I asked my mother where babies came from and she told me that one day she felt sick and threw up and there I came

But even then with my infantile mind still a landscape of bizarre colors and fantastic imaginings that I can now only reach through the release of my dreams I knew there was more

Even then I knew that there was more than a simple purge to bring me into this world screaming

In the dark recess of my mind I had a shadow of the memory of the shadow of the memories shadow of the pain of birth

Now with science and teachers I know what happened though I may have known more as a child who believed that his mother threw him up into the world and tried making his own babies but they would only splatter the ground in a mess and never rise to speak

So now I ask again, where do names come from?

But I am afraid that maybe we are too young to understand our human minds still too infantile to grasp the concepts and so we say only that God one day felt bad and puked out Abraham, Faith, Enoch, Moses and Joseph

Our black and white minds straining to recapture the dream within a dream that is the creation of our name of ourselves but the colors are too bright and we can not grasp it

So we create storks in our black and white worlds to carry our black and white names and miss the beauty of what those names are

We forget that lurching stumbling search of our birth as we looked for a name in that formless darkness before we were

The pain of the battle we fought to be who we are our toddler fists bashing into toddlers faces as we grasped in that darkness for a self

And when we grasped it and became Jack, Jill, John or Jacob that exquisite release of self and presence and knowledge of who we are

But then we were dropped by the stork and born to the world and in the blood, pain confusion we lost our name and we lost our color

And we gooed and gaaed in a blank black and white world crying for something we can not remember to miss or forget to remember, the ember in our hearts hurt

Burning with the desire for our names and ourselves that we fought for and won for

That name that whispers dirty secrets in our souls and is who we are and where we are going

We can not understand nor can we stand it, so we kill ourselves and each other in search of our names hoping that fighting like we fought before time was born will help us remember to forget

But even as we paint this black and white world red with the blood of our crying children we can not capture the names because we still think that one day God felt bad and threw up our names

So we fight on and on puking and puking trying to make our own names with the blood but it only splatters to the ground again and again

And we like the child that could not understand why he couldn’t make babies of his own to love and cherish can not understand why we can not make names for ourselves

Just as a mothers screams stirs the shadow of a memory of the pain of birth so too does the beautiful agony of music whisper the memory of our names to our souls

And art is the painting of the reflection of a shadow’s reflection of our names painted in a moonless midnight but with just enough light that we can almost see the colors

As I write now my fingers pulsing with blood and my eyes dancing and blurring on this page I can almost see my name

My name and my pain and myself given birth to by God, ripped out of the substance of the universe and bound to my corporeal self making me immortal

So that when my blood is spilt and my body is a memory of ashes floating through an imaginary wind I will still have my name to remind me who I am.

Maybe then after thousands and thousands of years of existing as a memory as a name passed down through the ages and gaining in wisdom I will finally be old enough to know

And then I too will scoff and laugh at the thought of God one day feeling bad and puking out my name

Then I will realize that spilling blood in a killing flood is not how to remember

Or maybe just maybe the next time I am born and bear this name that will last forever, maybe, just maybe, I will forget to forget.

Toy Boy Soldier



I was young once, just a boy

Running around, playing with my toy

Sword, gun weapon, chasing slaying dragons, laughing

Cootie distressed damsels rescuing

I was toy soldier hero with the power of god in my hands

World creating, adventure making, winter snows and desert sands

Invincible and powerful, I ran, jumped and played

Reckless and heedless, needless warnings by my mother made


I am young still, someone’s son

Running around with my gun

My gun, bomb, grenade weapon slaying damsels crying

For the dragoncontries vying

I am a boy soldier zero hoping to be held in God’s hand

World traversing, bloody sight seeing, heeding demands

Invisible and powerless I run, hoping for one more day before I died

And I can hear my mother say, be careful she cried


But now I am boy soldier toy

Puppet boy wishing he was wood because wood don’t bleed

or hear them plead

Or be shook and puke watching them spill seed to satisfy evil need

But blood flesh boy toy soldier I am, controlled jerky death dance, in Vietnam

Guam, war whore forced and penetrated by ideas

My maiden blood spilled, innocence killed, tangible fears

As the end nears, it becomes clear; I can hear that voice whisper

My dear son, and I am gone


Momma, why do you cry?

Momma, did I die?

Momma, why mama why?

I was just a boy playing with toys

In a war playing with us toy boys

Bleeding, my blood feeding the needing of power

Taste of death in my mouth sour


The world is splattered and showered with my blood

Running rampart red in a flood

Millions of mes buried in millions of seas

Our flesh feeding the trees

And now I say please.

Please tell me why, why I must die.


Momma, why do you cry?

Momma, did I die?

Momma, why mama why?

I was just a boy playing with toys

In a war playing with us toy boys

Bleeding, my blood feeding the needing of power

Taste of death in my mouth sour