Thursday, December 18, 2014



My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its crammed full of ghosts,
of those that I’ve lost,
those that I’ve loved.

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its full of regrets,
for the haves and have-nots,
full of the emptiness,
reeking of dust,
full of the ghosts
that once made up ‘us.’

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its full of my heart
and full of my lust,
full of my fears,
my tears and my woes,
home to my highs
as well as my lows.

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its full of the dreams,
that come in the dark.
Dreams of the future,
dreams of the past,
dreams that won’t linger
and don’t ever last.

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its full of the promises,
that wait in the dark.
Its full of the echoes,
from our pillow talk,
the sense of your body,
lying right here,
a whisper of breath,
the scent of your hair.

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its full of ‘me,’
of ‘myself’ and ‘I.’
Full of the things
I do to get through,
full of soft lies,
and full of hard truths.

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its full of the past,
and the future as well,
of the promise of heaven,
and the void that is hell.

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its still full of the ghosts
that wander my heart,
that haunt my heart.


Tuesday, December 16, 2014



It’s midnight and I’m drinking wine,
dark and red and dry as bone,
wine that tastes like tears.

It’s midnight and I’m drinking wine,
downing it all by my lonesome,
drowning out my little fears.

Pour the wine.
Raise the glass.
Give a toast to yesterday,
It’s midnight and I’m drinking wine,
and I don’t care what you say.

It’s midnight and I’m drinking wine,
another night,
another glass.

It’s midnight and I’m drinking wine,
if you don’t like it,
you can kiss my ass.

Pour the wine.
Raise the glass.
Give a toast to yesterday.
It’s midnight and I’m drinking wine,
and I don’t care what you say.

Monday, December 15, 2014

The Art of Asking

I've been reading Amanda Palmer's The Art of Asking.  The book was gifted to me by one of the regular customers at my day job.  It came as a pleasant surprise and I've been enjoying the book enormously.
Although primarily as expansion of her TED speech, Amanda Palmer includes a lot of autobiographical detail in the book.  And although I don't think of myself as an artist, a lot of what Ms. Palmer writes and shares has resonated with me.
One of the things she writes about is the three types of artists.  There are the collectors, who take the greatest pleasure in amassing the experiences that they later use in the creation of their art.  There are the connectors, the people who take those experiences and connect them, weaving them into story or song or street performance.  And then, there are the sharers, those artists who get off on sharing their creation with the world.
Miss Palmer firmly states that she is a sharer.  That connection with her audience, her fans, the public in general is her particular bliss.
I think, in my case, I'm the connector type of artist.  I like the make things: stories, pictures, whatever. That's what gives me the greatest pleasure.  I've been doing it for decades, for all my life, in fact. 
One of my earliest memories is sitting on the back steps of my childhood home and telling myself stories. Weaving a vast fantastical story in my head about winged people in outer space just for my own amusement.  I never wrote it down, I never told it to anyone before this and it didn't matter if I did it or not.  I was happy just telling the story to myself.
Connecting the dots, weaving the story is what gives me the rush. Sharing it with the world? Not so much.  As for collecting the elements of story? Well, for me at least, that just sort of happens.
So what does any of this have to do with The Art of Asking?
It's a good book.
If you're a creative type, or even if you're not, I'd say go out and pick up a copy.
Maybe it'll make you see that you aren't as alone as you thought. That those midnight thoughts we've had aren't unique to us.
And maybe, if enough people read it and get it, we can put the fucking Fraud Squad out of business.

Saturday, December 13, 2014



In crisp white windows they sit,
letters as black as black can be.
Jet. Obsidian. Onyx.
Impossible to miss behind frozen
glass, sitting on white velvet sheets.

We reach for them, you and I.
We press against the clear glass,
fingers splayed, hearts in our throats,
feeling the heat of words,
the beating black heart of waiting letters.

The glass gets in our way.
It holds us back until we smash it.
We reach into those white windows,
we cut ourselves on shards,
spattering little drops of our blood
on the white window dressing.

The letters burn, icy-hot,
but we do not let them go.
We clasp them tight,
hold them against chest and belly,
letting them mark our skin.

Later, when they’ve cooled,
we bend our heads and take bites out of them.
We bite the letters, breaking teeth,
not caring at all about it.
Our mouths fill will blood and words.

Then we run from the scene of the crime,
clasping our ill-gotten goods,
laughing and gobbling,
all the way to Dream City.

We spit out words as we go,
bits of story, pieces of poem,
a hacking expectoration of drama.
We run, fast as our legs will carry us,
until another white window catches our eye,
and everything begins again.