Piss and Vinegar

Wandering desert winds conjure 
wondering dessert wins; 
elves that ride ponies, 
rhythm spaced for miles, 
and a gallon left to drink. 

Heart away from home inside my head, 
stumbling through serendipity to find 
a sprite of sunshine's spray 
springing, sweet Tigger come to life; 
paths now merged, 
tears have dried from my eyes. 

There is opportunity here, 
lushness unexpected in the dry 
spiteful winds of this empty plane. 

Welcome mats aren't needed 
when such sparkles shine in gazes, 
diamond smiles and open arms 
wrapping my heart so tightly 
it'd be impossible to feel anything else.

There is something I can't quite 
put my finger on within the swelling laughter 
that she always seems to unravel 
in the spaces between the words. 

Absurdities arching my spine, 
as my revelry seems so poignantly 
reflected in her absolute ease 
inside the chaos of a passionate life.

Orange haired gypsy, 
made of funk, 
piss and vinegar; 
How does one follow 
the path of fire's flame?

Onward, ever forward, 
outside reason 
and in between 
the constants of 
straining senses; 
deep into the mix 
of hot sauce, 
and relief 
that this glorious goddess 
has shown enough mercy
to shelter this moonlit beggar 
from the cold, 
until the fire is again 
stoked within his open gaze.

Wounded healer, 
what madness must be endured 
in these chosen tribal trials?

Back to the trees, 
the wonderment of defaultia 
again embracing our perceptions; 
what new paths we are to travel, 
i gratefully traverse 
with a yawp of my own, 
and with thanks I rejoice.


there is a great debt left to be payed in my life:
a calling that i must no longer create art and expressions for others. they must be for me. for my tastes, my sensibilities... too often i have missed great opportunities for the sake of feeling a lack of social validation.
i cannot write good music or craft beautiful works for her, for them, for you. i can, however, create meaningful expressions when they are meant to better allow my light to shine.
this is something i must ponder further, of course. i do not seek the path of the hermit, of the introvert, of the man with no ties to community or the cares and needs of others... i do know, though, that it has not been working so far, and a conscious effort is needed to reclaim my potential and bathe my world with the most righteous lights that I have within my capacity.
love is in my heart, and fear will not be held any longer against a bosom of shame.
i am shaken
head spinning 

somewhere in the middle 
a formless and distant bear 
is beckoning 

molten rock 
splintered wood 
writhing seas 

we may be behind and ahead


love in no short supply, i reach into my own infinity and realize it wont be coming back with me. i am finite and yet my grasp encompasses the very duality between existing and the cessation of this consciousness.


incarnations of glory find their grotesque channel through my fight and this body of work i am burdened to create. my sensual fury will penetrate your being, i will take you and we will remember what it was to be as one.


boundaries be damned, touch me where its fuzz for miles. god lives and dies all around, and the flames lick my skin away. i am your infant son, i am the ballerina spinning lies into well-woven basket holding hands.