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A Spoonful of Sugar

I fight fiction
I rage against it
Too many lies, denials
Of who we are
Of from where we’ve come
Of where we are headed…


When truth is too bright
Too loud
It sends hands to protect the senses

Just fiction is softer
Lighter on the ego
Easing us into understanding
The deception noble

Where walls and armaments stand
This thief finds a way
A way through, even for only a penny
And from that tiny loss
Begins a crack
A welcome mat for the thief’s return

Even if only for a penny

Photo Credit: Wikipedia

Of Faith and Maybe

Leaving a story, writing anew
By force or will, often a marriage
Spurred by an ache, a wound
A wicked blow, an itchy nag
Or hollow’s hunger
Because easy never inspires
And pleasure sings a lullaby
At best, short blessings
At worst, crippling lies
Only pain’s heralds keep life true, keep us moving
Strides and footfalls of Faith and Maybe
Over no bridge
Down no path
Just yes, yes, yes
To the land between Was and Is
A destination carried
Under ribs, between lungs
Its thumps pushing the world
Through four rooms of meaning
Story always wins, has always won
In micro and macro, for better and worse
Stories are human and humans are stories
Stories within stories within a Story
Character or author?
This, the hardest question
This, the hardest choice.
Photo Credit: LearningLark/Flickr

Not This Disease

Words come slowly
Sometimes, none.
A struggle never won
The words lonely, until done

Another coffee shop
A warm cup and company
Muse’s altar
Bodies, voices
Faces, stories
The world is still here

Then, lyrics.
Goddammit, pull the reins
Paragraphs, please
Not this disease

“You prayed, I gave.”
She says
“Why question the sun’s rays?”

No prose
Just meter and verse
Creation in reverse
Buried first, cleaned by worms and dirt
From the ground sprouts
The gleam of singing bones

Fuck Kenton and Davis
Fuck improvisation, syncopation
Curse my father’s trumpet
My mother’s lungs
Damn my blue note origins
I don’t want to be bullets
Fired from poet’s guns

Heart’s call
The heeding, hard enough
The beating, in fits and leaps
The bleeding, always
Somewhere between clot and flow


Less Filling, Tastes Great

It was not the intention
But we let it all go
Well, it messed up the function
And sure fucked up the flow
I hardly have people that I needed to know
‘Cause you’re the people that I wanted to know

—Modest Mouse, People as Places as People

It’s hard to be open. Especially when I tap the glass of convention with a hard hello. Especially because I often tilt sun-warmed rocks and say, “Look, it’s dark under here.” Everyone wants a feelgood. I inspire doubt. I punch darlings. My thoughts, middle fingers of defiance.

There are hard paths I want to take, parts of me that I want to nurture, Big Things I want to choose. But dammit, there’s so many distractions, escapes. It’s a whack-a-pleasure world and the arcade is on fire.

Awareness is a bitch. There’s layers, a sea both deep and shallow. Everywhere there is a reflection…a connect-the-dots of inconvenient truths. Our clever constructs of metal and mind reveal our fear.

I claim no high ground or special wisdom. We’re all dancing. But I wonder if you see where we’ve steered too. I wonder if you notice the duality of how we wield our potential, our gobsmacking ingenuity. We are ego-stroked by each new high we achieve to perfect the art of eating our own tail. The irony is neutron star dense.

I wonder. I wonder about destiny and choice. I wonder about you.

I abandoned cable television seven years ago. Now when I’m exposed to it, it is surreal. The commercials. The news. The regurgitated storylines. It’s all spectacle. Attract and distract.

The Internets filled the void, especially social media, which conveniently sprouted at the time of my divorce and ensuing avalanche of loss. It filled my many holes of empty. But what I’ve come to realize is it’s just an hollow can of noise. Incessant bells and whistles and cries and shouts. A circle jerk of soapboxes. Selfies. Click bait. Posturing. Hustling. Snark. Arguing. Arguing.

The fucking arguing.

I’ve participated earnestly, addictively, in the electronic bukkake. I’ve played all the roles and I don’t feel better for the effort. When I think of the time I’ve invested in Facebook alone my stomach and conscience perform synchronized churning. I could have built a pyramid or written an epic novel instead. When I admit I’ve chosen digital over analog, shame washes in.

Its easily wielded power leads to a slow hazing of awareness. Entertainment infects information. Reaction swallows reason. Instant gratification murders intention. Always the answer is more bandwidth—more lanes to feed the streaming sprawl of disconnection to the hungry ghost within each of us.

As with the automobile, so is the Internet.

You can’t forget the kinetic danger of tons of steel and plastic ripping past while riding a bike on a road. You can’t ignore the roadkill. There’s no tinted glass or synthetic air freshener to shield yourself from the intimate scent of death. The unending logo-stamped garbage decorating each side of the blacktop isn’t blurred into nonexistence by cylinders and pistons.

Here, a squirrel, a dog. There, a Starbucks cup, a grocery bag, the shattered remains of a Bud Light bottle.

The bloated body of a cat lying in the bike lane could be a stuffed toy. But pedaling up on a full grown deer that has been ripped in half, its near-to-term calf staring dead-eyed through the mother’s entrails is something else. It’s a knife to the mind.

No soothing denial. No ignorance. No unseeing.

The devil is in the convenience. We lose respect for place. We choose pixels over the person standing next to us. We become “friends” with someone seas away but don’t say hello to the person walking by. We behave in ways we’d never dare in person because we can hide from consequence in the disconnection.

We’re blind to the accumulative effect. As our actions cheapen our humanity dims.

Life is experienced in the struggle, not the ease. Growth requires a met challenge. I know. I spent a good chunk of my life choosing easy and it didn’t work. The pain of wisdom is why I quit social media. It’s not true. It’s a hollow distraction, emotional masturbation.

Twitter deleted. Instagram too. Linkedin, Goodreads, Scribd, Tumblr, Pinterest, all gone.

I deactivated Facebook, giving myself a month to see how I would feel. When I came back I quickly fell into the same patterns. I created an anonymous account to be the admin for my author page and deactivated my personal page again.

Deactivation is not deletion though. Part of me doesn’t want to let go. It’s the comfort of the option, I guess. If I don’t have the option of this escape what was sacrificed to the info-ether becomes undeniable. I can’t create emotional destinations without the messy investment required by flesh. People as places as people.

The “likes,” the “follows,” the rants and the snark…all just a fix. Without it there’s just four walls, a bed and a laptop. Just me and the internal slam-dance. Just me and the big things, the real things.

I’ve reached through the computer screen at times out of sheer rebellion. I’ve traveled thousands of miles just to look into another’s eyes. I want to see them. The real them. They are always different, deeper. So am I. Bubbles of perception and projection pop. What remains is human.

It’s not convenient.

Photo Credit: Mike Mozart/Flickr
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Daylight Saved
Daylight Saved
To spite the dark
In spite of the darkness
There I’ll crave
There I’ll crave
To get to the heart
In spite of the darkness

—Tears for Fears, Sketches of Pain

“To remove such powerful obstacles to truth, we require the instrument that is the subtlest, most powerful, most appropriate for grasping the truth. This instrument is given to us in suffering.”

—Martha Nussbaum

I framed life. I defined the laws of reality through circumstance, choice, and consequence. From this a faith was born.

We each build a prison of Unified Theory. A comforting veneer for the unfathomable complexity. A fireside chair and blanket.

When did you frame the world, reconcile and fence your view with gilded barbwire? What happens when the fire grows cold or roars uncontrolled, when moths or fire’s tongue have eaten the blanket? When the body screams from sitting so long? When the chair betrays, cracks, sends you tumbling?

The Universe isn’t a mystery. It presents itself openly, its unending depth and breadth naked, its truth here, now. We choose not to see it. We choose to kill our wonder. We choose the comfort of limits.

Fear of a frameless view is the fear of possibility. One could lose grip. One could see that they’ve been mistaken about a great many things. One might find lies in precious truths, realize that they’ve invested in myths. One might be misunderstood, judged. One might have to be alone. One might change.

Who chooses to leave their belief unprotected? Who invites uncertainty to dinner, surrenders their flesh and soul on a plate?

This is the hard way, the vulnerable passage. This is the fertile ground.

I’ve spent many years chipping away at my altar of belief, my prison. I acknowledge, forget, catch myself piecing it back together. I measure. Compare. I fall asleep, choose a familiar road. I wake, the defeat heavy.

It’s hard to surrender. But only then can there be flow.

Though my persistence may flounder, it remains. But consistency is predictable, mechanic, imagination’s bane. Creation is not industrious or formulaic, it is chaotic. Wild. It withers in cogs and springs. It dies in chains.

Possibility is what I fight. Potential is what I fight.

I went to Portland and fought some demons.

I’m not sure if it was just shitty timing or synchronicity, but either way conditions were perfect for some emotional surfing. I’ve never visited, so I was popping a geographic cherry. Funny thing is, my fractured origin story forks from here. They were the Devenpecks, from the maternal branch. The details are sparse but apparently they were well-to-do, at least until the siblings blew their inheritance wads and the Roaring Twenties tanked.

The roads in Portland weaved their inspiration from a pile of barfed spaghetti and a bridge fetish. Dampness rules, the ever-wet city simultaneously in a state of decay and birth. Direct sunlight is fickle, allowing shades of grey to infect the hues. Coffee shops, bars, and strip clubs offer a temporary reprieve from every corner. Diversapaloosa walks hand-in-hand with monochromanticism. Tolerance lives as a hug, or at the very least, raised hands with shrugged shoulders.

Maybe it’s dying, maybe it’s thriving. The flux is palpable and somehow it works. It wakes up daily and does what needs to be done. Occasionally it casts some magic. It’s contradictions stand naked, serving punches to the brain. I am in love. It feels like home.

Even before I arrived I could feel a wave’s dark trough coming.

The night before, I dreamed I was in a bar talking to Chuck Palahniuk and he started rubbing my ass. What the fuck was that about? There wasn’t going to be time but I wanted to spend a day at Powell’s. I wanted to shoot the shit with Chuck. I wanted to stalk Strayed and Yuknavitch. I wanted to commune with Issac Brock and sing his doomed lyrics.

Instead, I came to race my bike. And by “race,” I mean an event that is more a masochistic party than serious competition. There shouldn’t be any fun in racing what is essentially a road bike with only one gear on a off-road course comprised entirely of sloppy-wet earth of varying consistency and depth in the cold of December. And yet fun it is. It’s a glorious sufferfest featuring a repeating course of impossible obstacles, acts of debauchery, obscene ridicule, an open bar, and costumes—a perfect metaphor for the inside of my skull.

Pleasure. Pain. Struggle. Repeat.

After, a fellow racer and gracious local offered to be the city’s ambassador for my group. She also happens to be a dominatrix. But I could be entirely mistaken. I felt it would have been rude, possibly threatening, to clarify. Her husband had to work early and was not accompanying our entirely male-lopsided foray.

After some food, she took us to Union Jacks, one of Portland’s oldest strip clubs. I don’t go to strip clubs. It’s uncomfortable. None of it is real. It’s business for the girls, objectification for the guys. Disconnection fills the room. Strip clubs just make me feel more lonely. Too many reflections.

This time I tried to use it as an escape.

Where the mind and heart fail, the body prevails.

A survey of my bare body confesses that I process corporally. It’s written in scars, my phantom suffering anchored in flesh to give it connection, a reason for being. I stopped channeling this pain through my body long ago but the ghost-ache never left. It wants to manifest. It wants to be heard, to speak truth.

Once I asked a woman to tie me up. She was knowledgable about these things, and I wanted to know. She knew a guy who had a dungeon and she went there sometimes. Sometimes the dom, sometimes the sub. She tied my hands together and then to the headboard. She added some prop handcuffs for effect. Each of my legs were tied to a bedpost.

I told her to hit me. She slapped my face and then I said harder. Harder. She bit and scratched. Then I had the urge to resist and pulled at the bindings. She sat on my chest to hold me down but her frame was petite. The bindings gave way and I broke the cheap handcuffs.

So, she hogtied me.

That’s when I started to cry. Not from pain or humiliation, but powerlessness. As open as my writing may be, I still live in a fortress, still cling to myth to protect myself. I had to surrender. She held me and I sobbed. It felt good and I slept deep that night. She said she would bring rope and real handcuffs next time. There was never a next time.

Our ambassador, who by this time I have become silently enamored with, talked about lap dances after we moved away from the chairs at the edge of the stage to a couch. I said I hadn’t had one. This surprised her. “No?” She asked. She said she didn’t ask for lap dances unless there was a particular connection with a dancer. This only made me want her more.

Curiosity of BDSM as an unconventional portal to healing combined with my invisible suffering is a potent mix. I’m aware enough to know that during my bouts of emotional ebbing I’m particularly vulnerable to attachment. When my moon is new, it’s needy. But it’s a lonely ache for that which does not exist. What is unattainable, unrequited, unavailable, unsaid, this is what’s attractive.

I have a denial fetish. I deny possibility, potential. My demon’s name is Denial. It’s all very Freudian.

The dancers pulled some guy on stage for his bachelor party “gift”. There’s nothing about a man being on stage at a strip club that is about his glorification. They made him get on all fours, spanked him, rode him like a pony. Through their smiles I wondered if the dancers found this cathartic. Or was it just more entertainment? Both? Our ambassador made a joke about pegging the bachelor. I said I thought the dancers would have pegged the guy, given the chance.

The dancer I found most attractive stopped and squatted at my feet, unbidden, as I sat on a couch. The way she had worked the tall pole on stage confessed her athletic ability. She wore black rimmed glasses and matching lingerie. Her top hung from each shoulder with a pair of thin straps that crisscrossed her back in a double “x.” She was lean, strong, but not stick-like. Her small waist gave way to wider hips.

“Do you want a personal dance?” She asked. I hesitated. Is this just business, or is she attracted to me too? Would I be a small pleasure, a break from the less desirable facets of her profession? I thought. I wanted to believe that. I wanted to be wanted.

I said yes, curious. You can’t intimately know a thing until you do a thing.

In the private booth she offered some small talk and informed me of the rules. The song started and I sought shelter in the fantasy. Then the song was over. Then she made change for payment.

I was denied my truer needs. Fetish fulfilled.

The next night I sought shelter with an old friend who now lives in Portland. It was a far better choice. She took me to a couple of bars and we caught up. I didn’t say that I was hurting, even though I know she wouldn’t have judged or become uncomfortable. It’s a natural reflex to hide the dark inside even though she is a safe place. It was enough to talk, to connect. To laugh. She said I should move to Portland. Maybe someday.

By the time I returned home, the dark was in full bloom. I had a hard time getting out of bed the next few days. I stayed home, hid. I told myself to surf the wave, that it will pass. It always passes.

A friend died. Christmas came, passed. I wrote letters to people I don’t know, just to get words on a page. The new year brought a sense of beginnings, even though I refuse such cultural constructs.

It’s the Year of the Rooster again. My fourth turning. Perhaps I can perch on that and crow.

Knowledge is only a rumor until it lives in the muscle.
—The Asaro tribe of Indonesia and Papua New Guinea

Photo Credit: Public Domain

The State of Man


Well I feel lying and waiting is a poor man’s deal
And I feel hopelessly weighed down by your eyes of steel
Well it’s a world gone crazy
Keeps woman in chains

—Tears for Fears, Woman in Chains

Men go crazy in congregations
They only get better one by one
One by one, by one
One by one

—Sting, All This Time



It’s a strange land, the modern masculine. There’s been progress but there’s always the urge to lurch backwards. Now feels like one of those moments. There’s still much that needs to change. 

I don’t fit within the narrative well even though I’m all the “right” things. See: White. See: Male. See: Straight. I don’t follow Jesus though. So, maybe not ALL the right things. As I navigate, there is conflict, isolation. I’m more observer than participant. At least that’s what I tell myself.

I was raised by my mom and she taught me to respect and protect women. When I was young one of my best friends was a girl. There’s my sisters, too. I am eldest child by a decade and my mom needed help. I changed their diapers. I fed them. I helped herd them, wash their faces and hands.

Women are people. Women are family. When I lose sight of this, it’s brief. There’s too much love for me to stray far. This is not true for all men.

My mom is sitting on the toilet and we are one still, soon to be two. That’s when a man’s arm reaches through a small window that is ajar, in up to the shoulder. He is trying to touch her. Grab her? Just scare her? She screams with the lungs of a professional singer, which is powerful. I jerk inside of her.

This is the first time I witness a man wielding privilege. Of course I do not remember this. And yet I was still witness. I do remember the next.

We are at the grocery store and I’m slightly ahead, sliding my fingers along a shelf edge, wreaking pricing havoc. She lets out a gasp and I turn to see why. Her face is shock-rage but she stands still. I ask what is wrong and she stumbles for words. How is she going to tell her child that a man just grabbed her pussy? She says a man just goosed her. I don’t know what “goosed” means but it’s clear that it is a bad thing.

Then it’s when my mother and I are walking back to the motel after spending the day at Disneyland. A girl’s screams. I can see a teen-aged boy in a pool dunking a girl underwater, his teeth framed by smiling lips. She thrashes, but the pool is too deep for her to stand. A woman sits in a lounge chair watching without reaction. Their mother? The boy relents, but only for a second as the girl breaks the surface and gasps. Then she’s under again. 

Mom grabs my arm and looks me right in the eye. “You keep walking up to our room. Don’t stop,” she commands, shoving our room key into my hand. I keep looking over my shoulder as I leave and stop walking before I lose sight.

“HEY, MOTHERFUCKER, STOP,” she booms and the boy visibly jerks. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING? LEAVE HER ALONE.” The boy stops, dumbfounded. The girl pops up scream-crying and swims away to shallow water. “SHE’S TERRIFIED, ASSHOLE. SHE CAN’T BREATHE.” The girl shakes her head in agreement as she trembles and sobs.

The boy yells back, “FUCK YOU, BITCH, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”

Then it’s high school. I’m on the bus across the aisle from a semi-friend and he’s flirting with a girl seated in front of me. The bus stops. He reaches out and shoves his cupped hand between her butt cheeks, and then up, as she begins to stand. Her face is straight shock laced with confusion, hesitation. I am shocked too, but other boys laugh.

Then it’s in the car next to mine, a man driving is leaned over, punching the woman passenger in the face over and over, his face ugly with rage. Cell phones don’t exist yet and I’m getting on the freeway, they aren’t.

That’s my memory’s excuse. Maybe I just drove next to them and didn’t do a thing.

Then there are the retellings.

Like when your mother tells me that she and her sister run to their bedrooms when their father comes home from work. He is drunk and, dammit, dinner isn’t ready. Next time it will be something else. There’s always something. Then the sound of their mother’s punishment finds its way to their rooms. 

Like when a lover tells me she was drugged and gang-raped when she was 16 and I am swept into the emotional devastation that holds her captive and makes her cut, makes her drink, makes her fuck men that harm, makes her try to die, makes her lose custody of her child.

Like when my sister tells me she was drugged and gang-raped years ago by boys who are high school classmates—the same high school where one of her best friends, Michelle Montoya, is raped and then murdered by a janitor. They find her body in wood shop, her throat slashed.

Like when I’m told a talented woman I know but never met in the flesh committed suicide because she’s been violated too many times in life and can’t stop the pain.

It’s also the aching disappointment I feel when the first question a man asks about a girl I’m seeing is, “Is she fat?”

When I pull out an unusual amount of cash from my pocket and a man’s reaction is, “Man, you’re nigger-rich!”

When a married man’s phone is filled with pictures of swimsuit models that he and his married friends send each other in texts. “Check out this one,” he says.

When I hear a man say, “Fuck Black Lives Matter, they just need to go to jail. Stop breaking the law, stop resisting. Problem solved.”

When I mention that the armed white men who took over the nature preserve in Oregon are found innocent of any wrongdoing by jurors and a man says, “Good, they stood up for what they believed.”

When I hear a man say, “This shit is nigger-rigged.”

When I hear a man say, “He’s such a Jew.”

When I catch myself objectifying women—I like tits just like this, ass just like this.

When I notice subtle fear tickling up my back when black or gay men outnumber me.

When I admit I’m attracted to strong women but also fear them.

When I watch the nation elect an unabashed sexist bigot to the most powerful position in the world. Just for spite’s sake.

There’s scores more. More than memory can serve in one pondering. Even if it were possible, even if I could recall each instance clearly as I write this, the pervasive weight of it all would break me.

Here at the coffee shop, a late-aged white man just asked the barista, “Hey, how about a smile?” She doesn’t react, doesn’t even acknowledge him. “Whoa, guess not.” he says, looking at his late-aged white male friend. The friend laughs, replies, “there’s not much to look at here today. Where’s what’s-her-name, you know, the redhead?”

I stare at them and seriously consider making a scene—the kind that escalates quickly to violence, especially in this political climate. But I don’t. I settle for a cold stare but I think my distain is lost on the two. I think what they just did is lost on them. 

It’s the water they swim in. It’s the water they were born in. It’s likely the water they’ll die in.

My mom would confront them. She wouldn’t hesitate. She wouldn’t consider safety first, she’d just roar. She’s beyond worldly events now, but if she were still here, her fury would be epic. So much of her life was survival and struggle. I’m glad she doesn’t have to witness the present.

The cognitive dissonance today is deafening.

I wonder what my perspective would be if my father would have been present. I wonder what my perspective would be had I not been molested by an older neighborhood boy. I wonder why, how he became that way. I wonder if I forgot some things purposely. I wonder about a man that also lived in the trailer park, the one I was introduced to by the older boy.

There are fragments of memory, suspicions. But memory is fickle, especially concerning things that don’t want to be remembered.

What did I lose? What did I gain from my childhood? Do I hold women too high? Do I hold all men accountable for the trespasses of a few? Is my heart too soft in places and too hard in others? Do I, in some twisted way, hate myself because I’m a man? There are no saints, but women have left me far fewer scars. I know this is not everyone’s truth, it’s just mine.

But historically speaking? Well, it tells its own tale. Our culture is traumatic and carves a particular wound on us, yet each outcome is unique and complex. We are all perpetrators, victims, and enablers of variable degree. Men have just led the way.

Like how I was abandoned by my father, and how now I’ve abandoned you, in a sense. Divorce causes collateral damage, son. I’m so sorry. You didn’t get to choose the consequences.

I hope I can make up for it, that I don’t lose you to resentment and rage. We need more men in this world who are gentle and kind, not brutal, their hearts bled cold by loss and the desire for control.

I love you.

Photo credit: Welcome Images

Worst Case



My heart aches for you. I’m smothered in guilt. What world have I brought you into? Its spring has been wound too tight and you are vulnerable in ways that I cannot protect should the world go awry.

Deep down I feel it. Too many dominoes are falling. 

We inherit blessings and curses from our families and spend our lives dancing with them. Sometimes the dance is graceful, sometimes it’s a mosh pit. There are no wallflowers. Everyone dances.

One of the curses I received is the ability to catastrophize. It puts one in a constant state of worst-case scenario calculation. It’s a distortion. Now, add that predisposition to an ever-growing surreal cultural landscape and hope is a flashlight on a moonless night.

What’s real? What’s fact? What’s truth? Trying to navigate is a feat miraculous.

It is a time of fear, upheaval, and unwinding that wears a lead coat of uncertainty, son. A long road lead to here but September 11, 2001 was a tipping point, not only for America. It was a shock that we replayed over and over until the images seared the mind of every soul.

Then came the rationalizations and consensus, much in secret. Choices were made, principles sacrificed. Agendas freed, opportunities exploited, countries felled. Blind revenge-patriotism burned across the land, seeding a potent shift. The police were armed for war. Money fell from the sky and we gorged.

A trajectory was set.

Then the truth cracked wide. A financial crisis too massive to contain ripped through the make-believe and stabbed with a blade enchanted by pervasive fraud and greed, it’s injury mortal. The future we pillaged to build reality roosted on the present. The world’s diseased heart became a void.

More rationalizations. Choices. Moral sacrifices. In the panic, denial moved from scaffold to foundation while necromancers cast spells of undeath. What was conjured walked but did not breathe—the Many, forced to sacrifice more and more while the Few feasted and grew omnipotent.

Then Hope and Change transformed into a slogan and there were token victories. But positions moved ever polar and divisiveness bloomed. Heels of resentment dug in, drew lines, built barricades.

Then Snowden unveiled another truth, a secret lidless all-seeing Eye, the apparatus complete, still growing. It was benevolent, It was to protect us, they said. Concern and outrage but a spark—there then not. Criticism quickly surrendered to resignation as calls of alarm became victims, examples of Power’s dominion. The Eye would stay open.

Hope dwindled into a farce, the scent of Change just an air freshener.

Silent disillusionment fermented then soured over the years that followed. Demons thought slain rose from the remains. Calls for action that pandered to extremism and threatened privileges became a soul strategy. Effigies of fear and rage and yearning for the past sang lyrics that stoked the hearts of millions.

Yet we were told things were better. Recovering. Growing. But for who?

Son, Power doesn’t listen. Power rules. Power feeds itself. Power plays different characters but is simply a pendulum that swings to and fro. Power never surrenders the throne, it is overthrown by others seeking what it holds or it rots from within.

We wanted Change and it was time to choose. But Power divides, weakens the whole. Power, as it always has, dressed itself in two.

A new surrogate of progress. Those who favored predictability, those who weighed novelty over principal, those who were complacent, those who were resigned, those who leaned on strategy, those who were still unequal, rallied behind their savior.   

An unwieldy proxy posed as an outsider, an obscene wildcard. Those blinded by anger, those whose hate had been repressed, those whose privilege had been slighted, those who felt impotent and yearned for yesterday, stepped out of the dark and flocked. They were empowered by his wreckless light and their bitterness unfurled.

But most of us slept, drugged with apathy.

The stage was set. We chose. Rage and revenge won the day, claiming an illusional victory.

Power remains and plans to harness its champion. Power forgets the greatest threat is always within. Lust blinds, betrays.

Consequence is clear, its bite sharp. But only in hindsight. A gateway to nightmares untold is open and I’m afraid for you, my precious son.

I hope I am wrong.



The consequences come, they always do
At first a tiny trickle, then KA-BOOM

We’re senseless, our denial endless
The elected busy fighting for power
Wasting time, yo, it’s the last fucking hour
The electorate pissing, moaning
Jerking off in the Facebook shower
Sold on serving elites as a noble cause
Following profits and frauds, demagogues
Take a knee, grovel, invest, pledge and plea
And worship work, waiting till break to go pee
And build that nest egg…Ha ha! Seriously?

Our burdened children will howl in dismay
When the whole shebang is in disarray
In the darkness bright as day they’ll say,
“The stupid assholes saw it coming but
all they did was argue, blame, and pray.”
We’d rather be consumed with who is gay
The big tits and ass on the Hi-Def display
Foaming at the mouth, shouting DON’T TOUCH MY GUNS
Anti-Vaxing while eating gluten-free buns
Reason and our wisdom lost in an idiot-fog

Dead inside, murdered by ego and pride
In lies and fiction we run and hide
Ashamed to admit something’s wrong
History, a circle-jerk double dong
Easier, better to just follow along
Keep robbing tomorrow to pay for today
Just like with the natives, then the slaves
Jim Crow, segregation, and the KKK
Selective memory, Columbus Day
The exceptional American Way

Take another hit off the bullshit pipe
Taste it now? That’s not the kind bud, harsh, riiiight?
I’m warning you now, don’t believe the hype
We never stopped building pyramids, fool
Yeah, you’re just a tool, they hide in plain sight
Now they’ve become nation-corporations
Stroking the shareholder’s expectations
Without their guidance, they say we’d be lost
To abandon them, nope, too high a cost

I’m sorry, never mind, just forget it
Don’t get upset, it’s probably nothing
Hey, did your bejeweled iPhone just ring?
Wait, I know the lyrics to that, one two three
“Go on, buy a new thing, buy a new thing
Sweet honky Jesus, the comfort it will bring”
A catchy ditty, our anthem, you see
A birth to death dream-song inside a meme
This, all of it, the story our culture sings
Without it, without it, what would we be?

Don’t worry, I ain’t preachin’ or dissin’
The same la la la is playin’ inside me
I still wrestle and sometimes lose to it
I’m just hoping you’ll see the truth of it
Keep waking up, fuck, there’s no time for tea
Call it out, yank the curtain, just like me

Photo credit: Meet The Chumbeques/Flickr



Groomed, sedated
Molded, mated
To task oblivious
To ritual vigorous
Contagious, viral
Ego’s denial
Addict’s fate-spiral

Brutal dysfunction
Unending destruction
Suffering’s instruction
This, the work we cannot see
This, the phantom machine
This, the vision
This, the world we weave

Momentum, inertia
City, Suburbia
The damned utopia
To Moon, Mars, other stars
Its romantic scent blows
This, how the story grows

We sew the meme
We break the Beam
Beautiful, glorious
Us, laborious.

Photo credit: Bro. Jeffrey Pioquinto, SJ/Flickr

On Not Writing


I’m not writing. And now I am writing about not writing. An author/filmmaker once told me that not writing is part of writing. So, it’s all writing?

I’m pissing like it’s a hobby, like an amateur. It’s all over the toilet seat and running down to the floor.

All this thinking but not writing makes Jack not know the shit from the Shinola.

I tell people I’m writing a memoir but I spend more time thinking of the book title instead of typing words. Full of Fuck. Stories Not My Own. Lesser Deaths. As if this will conjure elevators where there are only stairs. I want the finish without starting.

FACT: I am not irony deficient.

Is this how my art manifests? I mean, are acts of contradiction and internal struggle just my nature? This is when I walk the hot coals of self-help platitudes.

Just do this, be this, think this.

I divorced to do this. I sold a house to do this. I quit a 24 year career to do this. I did these things so I could live a true life. Didn’t I? What the fuck am I doing?

I remember driving my great-aunt to my house for Thanksgiving the first time writing and I would be associated. We weren’t close, such had been the Irish side. Yet this legacy of disconnection seemed downright warm and welcoming compared to the nonexistence of the Italian side, thanks to a father who was too busy playing a trumpet for Stan Kenton. That, and the kind of familial shame only the Catholic Church could create with the birth of an illegitimate child.

Auntie Vee was a shrunken, eggshell-frail woman that had been taller once, much taller. Such was the Irish side, but osteoporosis had taken her spine and turned it into a permanent question mark. It looked like she was bearing a crushing but invisible burden. This too was a characteristic of the Irish side.

She lived alone, never married and no children. Alone is how the Irish side finish their lives. She wore polyester pantsuits. Never dresses, not even in the few photos we had of her before my birth. My mother suspected her aunt was secretly gay. But mom’s gay paranoia extended to anyone, possibly everyone, even her only son.

As we fussed with a special pillow-wedge to support her back I could see worry growing in her eyes. I’d almost died in a motorcycle accident two years prior at the ripe age of 17…driving and I was something to worry about. Her fear looked like it could turn deadly so I stuck to the surface streets and drove slow. Who wants Thanksgiving turned into an awkward holiday tragedy? Turkey. Football. Some bullshit about Pilgrims and Indians. That time I killed my great-aunt.

We only saw each other occasionally during the holidays so I filled the familial void with a lot of talking about nothing. I talk a lot when I’m nervous. She broke my blathering with a blunt question.

“What do you want to do?”

“As in a job?”


“I think I want to be a writer.”

“Well, you are awfully young to be a writer. You have to live a while before you can write,” she replied. Her tone sounded like a subtle put-down, a family tradition my mother had warned me about.

And so it went when conversations drifted — people would enquire what I’d like to do beyond the grocery job that I hated. I would inevitably answer, “I think I want to be a writer.” It got to a point where I’d snicker inside after saying those words. A self-loather’s repertoire is nothing without denial of the heart.

Predictably, the follow-up would be, “Have you written anything?”

With shame lumping in my throat I’d have to answer that I hadn’t, that it was more of a dream than anything else. Faces would get all screwed up in confusion. It was a lovely contradiction and part of me would hurt when I would admit that — the part of me that wanted to write. Needed to write. But I kept that part caged and gagged with a gimp ball.

It didn’t matter if my great-aunt’s opinion was right or wrong, whether or not it was a conscious clip of my self-esteem. A childhood of feeling unworthy leads down a path of self-betrayals. Among those betrayals, some near lethal, writing remained a calling that I would refuse.

I read about Michael Heizer recently, an artist that has spent his life building a monolithic magnum opus in the remote Nevada desert. It’s art of a scale and purpose that runs straight into the arms of insanity. The stuff of pyramids and great walls. It is not dedication, not discipline. It’s compulsion.

I’m jealous.

His madness makes me wonder about flow. Attempting to fish with bare hands or comprehend the subatomic is probably easier. Words coalesce and then wink out. Others appear, morph, build upon themselves. It’s strongest when I am driving, something to do with objects in motion. A silent part of me tries to break through into consciousness. The world fades. Did I just blow a red light? Shit, I missed my exit. Where am I going again? It’s dangerous.

When I stop so do the words.

Maybe I should ride trains, that’d be safer. My homeless uncle did. Mom said he went all the way to South America. She also thought he was the headless body my child-eyes watched being loaded into a corner’s van.

I mean, was it her brother? Did he want to die near his sister, if only to have a final semblance of connection to the family that shattered in his youth? By eerie coincidence, by being at my friend’s house that early morning, by us looking over her backyard fence, a fence that just happened to face the train tracks right where the body lay, did I, his family, bear witness? When I told my mother what I saw was I his unwitting herald?

She never saw or heard from him again.

I thought once I sincerely chose to write sparkly inspiration would shoot out of my fingertips. The momentum would carry me like the smell of failing brakes down a steep grade. All-consuming flames of want would possess my motivation. Words would involuntarily gush out all my holes make a mess on the floor, just like the staggering compulsion of Michael Heizer’s acts of art.

My journey is almost never that. When it is it’s fleeting. Mostly it’s The Narrator and Tyler Durden. It’s Morpheus and the bad actor hero. It’s making love to words while cage fighting them. It’s awkward pubescent foreplay. It’s fuck it, then continuing. It’s rabbit turds.

Then there’s the rationalizations, the acts of avoidance, the self-hate. Bits of bullshit wrapped in bent logic and worn as hats:

Writing will never sustain me, put food on the table.Writing won’t take care of my son’s chronic illness. What do I know of writing? No one will take me seriously without a college education. Better to take what skills I have, fluff them up, and peacock my soul to someone else. Better to find a lover’s story to lose myself in, to sail upon a romantic boat of distraction and attempt to compute incomprehensible people math. I’m failing. I’m lazy. I’m a petulant child. I’m a fraud. 

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be a writer. I don’t know what I want.

Intention, planning, strategy…these things have foiled me consistently in life. The Do = Be = Have equation doesn’t work. It’s focus is external. It’s methodology requires a sense of incompleteness, an everlasting yearning for attainment.

A few days ago I woke with a strong sense of direction that comes from somewhere beyond intention. It is an occurrence that is so rare it feels alien. All I know is that big changes come when I experience this. I don’t want this feeling to be fleeting, dissolving undefined.

Now I want to delve deeper, to listen intently. I tried a visualization technique I learned recently that helps with clarity. It seems like woo-woo shit I’m always suspicious of but there is science to back it.

I’m standing on a beach, facing the ocean. The waves come and go. I concentrate on what’s troubling me, how it feels, where that feeling resides in my body. It’s a deep ache, a heaviness that smothers my heart. I reach into my chest and it pull out. In my hands an oozing tarry black substance hangs with an uncanny heaviness. I throw it in the sand and wait to see what happens, letting whatever comes next to unfold without influence.

A wave crashes, swirls around the blackness and drags it out to the sea. Another wave crashes, it’s foam-laced edge sliding up the beach to my feet. As it retreats a sword lies in the sand, sliver blade and gold pommel catching the sunlight.

A friend said that in Buddhism swords represent decisiveness. I don’t believe in Buddhism.

Photo credit: Edna Winti/Flickr