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Posts published in August 2013

In The Spirit Of

He follows sunlight’s lead,
Rising and falling with the
Hiding and showing of the
Moon, that which circles
’bout, as do his children,
Three, and wife, One.

He races through the weeds,
Laying in the grass when
Reaching a lawn worn thin
By tiny, grown feet; and he
Cares for this canvas, where
Their hearts never stopped
And eyes never ceased
Being open to possibilities.
His hands trace routes in
The green, looking for
Their smiles in his memories,
While all after him holds more
Than what he could have seen.
Stilled, he finds solace in the leaves.

Just Keep Going

The birds, following
Stream to be far away
From what they’ve known,
Trusting few who still
Know the destination,
Give flight to the Way,
And just keep going,
Hopping into breeze
As all slowed pedestrians,
Angry o’er the chanced,
Fall behind to be still where they are.


Look around,
Your eyes
Find mine,
But the world
Tilts just so
You stare down,
My head rises,
And focus falls
Inward again.

Below the shoulders
Moves, as I
Imagine a smile
And widened eyes
Looking back at me;
But, with my head
In the clouds, you
Have no chance of being
In my sight today.

Given a
My mind winds neck,
A snapping-back to the present,
Where your gaze, though
Lowered, draws me
From across all that’s been
To everything ahead of me;
And you look up,
Drawn by my gravity,
The world spins just so
A hand, on an arm, from a shoulder,
Raises to flushed brow to
Wipe away a hair, the
Only barrier that was left
To keep words, buried, from
Rising and being given life
While lungs fill with you.


We fault others for
The follies we
Find ourselves
Doing often enough
To know better.

A poem is a view which an author ever-so-lightly drills behind the eyes[ having known life before & after, and preferring after].

The Pot

I fold,
Not because I give in,
But, because there are many more hands to be held.

the Moon

I can see
The Moon; the one I cannot touch
Hangs above me,
As a reminder
Of who I want to be,
And who I am today.

Quotes Tertius

When you smile, the world stops to witness your happiness. Always smile, so the world is always stopped for you.

“I once was dumb, and find myself flashing back every so often,” says anyone not realistic about their limitations.

Honesty is helpful to one’s self, but honesty through eloquence is helpful to everyone.

Happiness is a rudder, of which we know little its mechanisms and much its foils.

The worst feeling is knowing I’ve changed someone’s outlook on life or me, without meaning to. I detest being thought of, let alone negatively.

Given the flower or the seed, always remember: one is dying, while the other has yet a chance to live.

Remember your constraints; they are not meant solely to keep you, but to carry you as well.

Memory is a muscle, and sleep is protein.

Being still is a means of control; remember, when you feel as though everything is out of control, you can always control yourself. Often, after gaining control of yourself, others fall in line accordingly.

Be great at everything you take time to do. Never settle for being okay; being okay is leaving knowledge on the table, and handing the check to someone else when you have more than enough of an ability to foot the bill.

Be great. Just try it for a while, and you won’t want to be anything else.

I will fight so long as there is a clear goal; otherwise, I would be flailing, which is far too close to another type of -ailing to know a difference.

I’m glad autocorrected, “words,” are not recorded, or you would no doubt think less of me.

I despise misspelling a single word, and will take time from writing to discern the correct spelling. Yes, this sucks for stream of consciousness, but I avoid Worry, a much stronger force than Theme or Subject or Passion to me. Labelled OCD, it’s really a pursuit of perfection, for whatever that’s worth or however subjective its realities. Being honest with myself, Passion for perfection is the same as Passion for writing, and so long as Passion is used, no other purpose matters.

If I could describe [Candi &] my sleeping habits using only a comparison to another species, I would point toward Dryococelus australis’.

Acceptance grants the acceptor unlimited insight into existence. However strong one’s beliefs or ideals, acceptance can broaden that strength by merely stretching to encompass more. Acceptance is assimilation of all observances and thoughts into one’s life. If even to dispel another’s views, accepting acknowledges those views and allows the acceptor to objectively move on from them. Fighting what exists, even if only in another’s thoughts, is fighting fantasy. Acceptance is not accepting existence, but is accepting there are other views of existence; even if another’s lens needs cleaning, acceptance allows us to be tolerant, and tolerance allows for clarity of thought, the most highest achievement of humanity.

In Greece, she would be as a goddess; here, she is a cunt.

It seems marriage is the only thing, once broken, which is no longer appreciated for its prior state.

It’s better to be far behind than fed up. – Mike Goodman says this sucks as a quote.

My goal in life is to ruffle as few feathers as possible, because all they do is dirty the water. [ruffle is not the same as pull, so this doesn’t really work]

Life is a series of choices to interact, or not.

Drinking is a form of relaxation, like dying is a form of sleeping.

Living in the present is not the same as forgetting the past.

Antagonists are as important as the protagonists, just as space is as important as the stars.

Leaving is never as hard as apologizing for having done so.

“Lonely,” is not the right word; “solitary,” is.

I try hard to be as silent as possible; I write instead. This has caused my verbal communication skills to diminish (as though I ever had them). Self-degradation is my defense mechanism, and I often depend on it to make others feel better about having hurt me, even professionally. Never be who you want to be; be who you need to be to be who you want to be. “To be,” or not, but know you are always being [something].

Listen to be heard.

Breaking is an excuse to fix.

Listening is the sincerest form of respect; it is a direct reflection of the time one puts into another.

Memory is the bottle of creativity.

Love from our feline friends gives happiness with a side of humility.

Look to always be better; you know, so you can become Prime ‘n’ shit.

Going and going, the mover never knows to stop.

“Always ask yourself, ‘what’s the worst that could happen?,'” was my Mom’s way of breaking my anxiety, so I could fix it with logical discernment.

I write as a form of expression. All expression is invaluable, as is all interpretation.

Dying is having known inhaling and exhaling, and being unable to do either.

Anger defines us. I would rather be without definition, though such shapes rarely keep it together. Can I say, then, that anger both gives us definition and destroys us, eventually, if we attempt to remain undefined?

I am more critical of my mistakes than thankful for my successes. Does this make me ungrateful of my gifts, or wanting of more? No. I am critical so I can strengthen my gifts, and pass them on to our children.

Lineage is the path one’s successes should take, with failures as signs along the way.

Failure is life’s way of showing you how much success should be desired.

Relativity is scaled.

I regret my previous lack of effort.

… like caribou in Malibu,
And I’m a big game hunter
With a finger on the trigger
And 4 more on the butt

“He’d be twice as smart if he talked half as much.” – My Dad

Lose to know what winning feels like? Sure, I’ll die to live now, too.

We can adapt to [any situation], but decide to make excuses for any situation. We call this, “being human,” but I call this, “bothering to be bad.”

Love is everyday. Portraying a bond as unattainable, except through a miracle, belies the work and patience put into love. Love is like the river and the stones: worn into one another, they are just as beautiful together as when they first met.

Jealousy is an afflicting notion that something will happen which leaves one at a disadvantage to another.

I miss losing my balance and floating into a crash; this is not a call for help, but a way to remember what was and is no more.

We foolish billions.
While light-boned feather-heads fly,
We crawl, silently, leveling to rebuild
What was beyond our reach– still.

A mark of a fool is claiming to be first after observing only their self; a mark of the intelligent is to wonder what is next.

Continuing a thought by building upon it can be both required and abandoned, often at the same time.

Sorrow, from despair, is borrowed, to be returned tomorrow.

Sorrow borrowed is sorrow lost; sorrow kept is sorrow wept.

They who fault someone for their minor mistakes may, themselves, be faulted for missing their attainment.

Hello, memory’s hidden sights

The echo of blades spinning lands in his ear.
“God dammit! Again? We had given them reason to stop–”

“We’ll give them another reason,” interjected the man to his side.

“Don’t be hasty, George.”

“Then why are we here, Tom? To camp?”


“Whatever, man. Are we going to let the others know, or let them keep cutting?”

Walking into camp, the others knew what was going to be said by the way Tom was shaking his head and the way George’s happiness was barely being held back.

George handles confrontation the way a shark handles water; it’s his territory, and everyone else is trespassing until he kicks them out.

Tom, though, knew as much of confrontation as a panda knows how to hunt in a desert; he’ll stand his ground, then wander a bit, and eventually faint from dehydration or fear.

The others bent forward and lifted themselves up from the log.

“I heard saws,” Tom said, nearly not wanting to say so.

“Any scary things left from last time?,” asked George.

“No…,” said the third from the left.

“Shit. How are we going to scare them this time?” Tom didn’t like confrontation, but one-sided scare tactics allowed the group to get what they wanted without risking anything.

“I can…,” George trailed off.

“Do it, and we’ll kick you out,” the second from the right said, straight-faced and with an obvious disdain for George’s thought processes. Depending on others is tantamount to one’s having failed.

George’s eyes hid behind their olds for a second, then widened as though being electrocuted. He was furious, though knew he couldn’t say anything; the incident a few years ago embarrassed him enough, and he didn’t need another.

“Fuck it. We’ve been here and doing this for 7 years. If they don’t know yet that we’re not to be messed with, then it’s their damn fault if they get hurt.” Tom’s panda spirit animal awakened, sounding more like a grizzly.

“Wow, Tom, so will you be going up to them this time?” asked the first from the left.

“No, I’m a lookout. I, …” Tom responded, not even wanting to finish what his responsibilities are. He always knew he was more important than they thought, but only when they needed him did they say so.

“We know, Tom. Everyone has their role,” said the tenth, a grey-haired woman who knew Tom from before all this, and knew what his potential was. She pitied Tom; not because he was a failure, but because he didn’t know his own potential, so never could have lived up to it.

“Let’s try to reason with them, then. They know why we’re in the way, and we know why they don’t care. The last outcome either of us can stomach is to have the other’s wants done in full,” the sixth from the log stated, with a hint of a plea.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go back,” responded George.

As Tom turned to see George leave, he focused on tomorrow. He would spend it with his families, home and work, going after a day he could smile about later. He couldn’t wait for this weekend, “responsibility to the world,” shit to end; he’d rather be responsible every day, and not try to be someone for a few days who acted as though they had anyone else but his own best interests at heart. Hell, he did this for time with the boss, George, not to save anything; shit, other than his family and friends, what did he really want to save?

Take A Walk

Walking in the warming Sun,
Having left the keyboard and
Cubicles, those open-air asylums,
For a bit; have my Transitions
Lenses, and feet on tracks to
Keep moving while my head spins.

Perfect view of a duck in rest,
Bill in breast and I’m jealous;
I keep trekking, hoping these
Steps taken before yield to me
Their nuances of life given to
Plain sight’s camouflaged peers.

Unsolicited Feedback

And I miss so much,
Leaning into screen
Versus peering around.

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