Friday, June 20, 2008



invisible you
awaken my follicles
enliven my mood
touch each leaf in your passing:
evidence of existence


Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Omega Horseman

The wind flared up each side
of his tattered brown hood,
and with a waving motion, it closed
around his faceless form, pushing forth
the smell of rotten meat, forcing it upon my senses.

And I gagged as his beast-like screams scurried
from his mouth and into my ear canals,
small streams of fog following behind.

His presence zoomed-in to mine, standing
just inches in front of me. His hand: as cold
as bare feet in the snow when he laid it upon my
trembling shoulder.
Fear stuck in my eye like an icicle,
and my tongue began to bleed. I turned
and spit warm plasma into his hollow eyes.

And the ground laughed beneath us.

Suddenly I heard the metal-on-metal screech
of a thousand trains slamming into my head.

"Please God, I don't want to die!"

"My daughter just turned two years old. Please God no!"

"Sir. Sir, can you hear me?"

My ears were like two big-screen television sets
with the volume turned all the way up,
blasting white noise into my mind.
But after some time,
some words managed to escape through:

"Does it hurt anywhere, sir?"

"My neck. My neck hurts."

It felt like the top of my head exploded,
like my spine had splintered somehow.

"Sir, do you know who Christopher Reeves is?"

As I heard these words,
I can remember the sweet smell
of perfume from the hands
that pulled my head out of the glove box.

"And you have seen him after his horse back riding accident?"


"Then don't move or you will be just like that! Okay?"


"You may feel a slight pinch, sir."

Shortly after what felt like a large bee sting,
a warm sensation traveled up my arm and spread
over my entire body. My shirt: cut up the middle
with cold scissors chilling the skin on my chest,
my favorite pair of jeans, cut up the seams, shredded.

And Death seemed to be pacified,
perhaps even satisfied . . . for awhile.

But sometime later, after the holes in my head
and the vertebrates in my neck mended themselves,
He came calling again. My arms were weak with weary
and my mind was amiss. The day was all too dreary. I don't
think my head touched its pillow for about three days. My eyes:
swelled, cracked, wide-open. I recall the miserable heat, hot
shower-like, stinging-sweat made viewing anything almost
impossible, but I continued to build. The rough, rectangle-
shaped, massive truss slid through my hands until it abruptly
stopped and pierced them with tiny splinters of pine; This
is the last memory I have before I was flipped upside-down
and driven headfirst, over a story, into the concrete floor.

Death is a sensation like no other.

"Joe! Joe! Take care of my kids, Joe!"

"Okay Eric, I will, don't worry!"

"Son-of-a-bitch! I'll never live through this one!
No one could live through two broken necks.
Tell me the truth! I'm not stupid."

"No, you're not stupid," the nurse said as she held my hand
tightly and asked if I could feel the pressure from her squeezes.
My wife sat caressing my other hand, my cold and lifeless
fingers as I entered a different realm, one that exists only on a
psychological and spiritual plane. One might think seeing and
hearing your father, who passed away eight years previously,
could be shocking, but quite the contrary, it was rather
comforting. The helicopter ride: exhilarating.

Another pair of jeans cut from my shivering body: priceless.

Now, on this day, I take nothing for granted, appreciate
even the slightest aroma of the Rose of Sharon
and the silk-like feel of its petals against my skin.
The sound of my children playing on a warm day,
any day, sends me into a state of bliss.

And although contentment seems a gentle breeze,
I sometimes listen to the ground for hoof-beats . . . or a laugh,
knowing that the Omega Horseman,
someday — will ride again.

But this time, I’ll be ready,
turning the darkness
into light.


Thursday, June 12, 2008


What am I doing here?

My head and neck hurt so fucking bad.

My heart pounds my chest sore.

And my face slides into my hands.

Behind this screen I hide in pain

and pretend to have a purpose

while the world outside looks hazy and hot

The air: undoubtedly thick.

Three hours left . . . .

The sun will be setting as I walk out.

I picture it immense on the horizon

a deep bright orange orb


the radio blasting


as I drive home.



Monday, June 09, 2008

I'd like to say a few words.

I feel the meds in my knees, this is an indication that I could be asleep in about twenty minutes, if a creative spark doesn’t allow my mind to NOT shut off.

Picking through the
seeds and stems
of today’s memories

I find you
sitting, silently
waiting patiently
for my arrival

dimensions of red, orange, purple
bursting blooms adorn the path
in this aesthetical, peaceful
where a butterfly lands on the back of your hand
standing as a symbol.

(Most people perceive that the butterfly’s purpose is purely aesthetical, if they consider it at all. But it is also a symbol, a display meant to teach us the art of metamorphosis. But the butterfly cannot teach us, she can only allude to its beauty. The art we must teach ourselves, to be transform.)

Be like the water. Flow.

Monday Morning
(June 2, 2008)

I got that phone call
again today, the one where
you hang up the phone
in a slow, silently sad way
and another friend becomes part of the dream.

There are two worlds which matter most to human beings: the collective, agreed upon reality based on concepts based on leaps of the imagination (Strange how that is.) and the personal yet universal singularity of what I sometimes refer to as the dream.

Plato called it dualism, the belief that the world we live in, according to Plato, is not the true reality, but that there is another realm of human being. The realm of the forms he might say, the only place where perfection exists. And others might call this place heaven. Certainly it is thought of by Christanity as to be quite a specific destination. But I say a happy, subjective yet all compassing existence is obtainable for any one wishes to beileve that it's possible.

(A lightening bug is crawling on my leg now as I type. I look down to see his flashing light, look to the left, see the flashing light on my computer, and then see a most strange similarity in the way the lights look and the way in which they pulsate.)

It is the dream we seek,
a state of perpetual inertia,
being launched into a realm of pure thought,
having no containment
simply free,
a personal yet universal
singularity of eternity.

Some maintain that they live for this life. Some: for an afterlife.
But it is the balance of purpose that evokes a smile from the human spirit.

And since there is no definition in this realm, no containment, we must absorb as much of this world’s love and beauty so as to make a smooth, happy transition in the next plain of existence, where there are no limits.

It is human evolution to evolve into pure thought.


  • Promise of Light

  • moon phase info
    My Photo
    Location: Far Side of Sanity

    And the iguanas dance in the desert/a thousand miles away from this place/and this face: stoned immaculate.

    "Let us remember . . . that in the end we go to poetry for one reason, so that we might more fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them, and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both." Christian Wiman, Editor of "POETRY" "Hang on to your hopes my friend; That's an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away, simply pretend that you can build them again." ~ Paul Simon

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    "Imagination is more important than knowledge." ~ Albert Einstein