You’ve always seen yourself as plain,
Yet I see beauty to reveal:
Not flaws, but marks that show a life
And all you’ve felt, or yet may feel,

For what is obvious to me
Of you in whole, and in each part,
Is the plain gold that is your worth
And that great glory that is your




Half-frozen mud, cold bracing air
A wind that makes my neck aware
That leaves torn from the tree will die
These poor gray strays who tumble by

And like the ghostly light I seek
The morn recedes behind the line
Only of chance to risk a peek
At drifting lives
Like yours

And mine


(“Aware” – 11-19-2014)

in the time of dreams

thoughts from an auto graveyard.

each car is a story;
every story starts with a dream

like children,
born of passions lost to the moment

how came they each to be here?
each came by a different set of roads, we know –

for there was a someone
or someone(s)
for whom, on a certain day,
the purchase of this specific car
was the whole of their concerns

and it was new
and choice was new, and paramount –

all delivered back
in the time of dreams
before the years pummeled these vehicles
into what we see now

ore mined one place
parts manufactured somewhere else

car built

gas pumped in stations in
who knows how many towns

what conversations took place in this car
what journeys were undertaken

is this place a reminder of human vanity
a testament of human strength in frailty?

cars are just things,
things are
kind of important —

the wind is blowing harder now
and i’m looking as though
i fit right in here

back in the time

of dreams

leveraged mockery

the last lone bird at sunset come
to pick whatever’s left or right
upon the winter docking bay,
the guiding edge of light and night —

this age is likely better now:
we thrive on leveraged mockery
and straggle on to pick our line
toward prison or

the lottery

{ the next inhabitants }

emptied of the cardboard crates,
the feelings that went with this place
are gone. the next inhabitants
will not know of the toys we found
in cushions, nor will they still hear
the songs we sang at bed.

the room transforms into the shape
of they who breathed and dwelt therein,
but now returns to resting form:
a moldy bit of wood and paint,
that shows no signs it ever housed
the living or

the dead

by products

A meditation on our role in the choices available to us

the world’s a store, and
we walk by products that are
arranged to catch our eyes;
our attention often fixed upon
objects not present, the
subjects of our current fixations –

and yet, if economics allow, we often
buy products that we know we may not
need or even want, merely from a sort of
habit of politeness; a feeling that
so much trouble was gone to for us, we
really should show some support –

bringing home these pointless objects, we
find ourselves leaving by-products, traces
of these and other half-optimal choices that
make up most of our days; the things we do, because
we must do something, and so we choose from among
the options available to us

if, of course, by “products” we are thinking of
things like relationship and career choices, this
only becomes more true – and more the
pity, since we frequently either don’t go to
enough stores to provide sufficient choice or
go to stores long after the right choice has been
purchased by someone else