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I think I have a compulsive reaction to overused mediums. I can never write in the same place. Writing starts to feel manufactured, and I block out new material. I project the words onto their canvas, but traditionally think of them and just get bored writing/tapping. I need some writing gusto.

I hate them afterward (read of shame).txt

I tend to marvel at my own writings shortly after they’ve been saved, despite always later wondering what I was thinking, and letting them fall from favor upon my remembrance of the idea that I am older, wiser, if by seconds. And, let’s face it: seconds mean a lot when a mistake takes a batting of the eye, or the misstroke of a key.


The pregnant silence eats random amounts of time, waits until you’re in bed asleep to ask your attention, and always makes you try to listen for a kick.

We are a lot like the moth

We’re a lot like the moth trapped on the inside of the door. Hands are there to help us, carry us to freedom, let us fly once we are safe enough to do so. But, we, like the moth, fight these hands. We know not what the lips behind them say, we know nothing of their intentions; so, we fight. We flap our winged gums, we flail our hands and feet wildly, and we stop only once we’re spent and cannot move without fear of falling. In that flapping and flailing, we forget about the hands. They’re a backdrop to our reality; they become but a secondary concern to the feeling of not persevering. We fear failure and panic in our anxieties of what we are not able to do. But, those hands remain. What seems like an exhaustive lifetime to the moth trapped against the door is but a second to the hands and their lips. We have just preserved ourselves in the tired wilting of our bodies. We have not persevered and we have not found freedom. The hands, seeing our tormented selves, is able to lift us from that world behind the door and escort us to the safety of the garden. We, overcome with joy and seeing our escape, leave the hands behind in a show of fantastic and unbridled victory. The hands fall to the side, triumphant in their goal. I say, do not forget those hands. They have saved more than you, and have taken much longer than our own lives to devote to doing so. Be thankful for the outreached hand, even those you fear, even those you don’t understand or cannot see. God will always be where you are; not because He comes with you, but because you are always in His presence.

Psalms 62:9

There is a reason why Jesus did not allow those He met and who experienced His presence to despair in their worldly image of themselves. To Him, all are the same. Beyond referencing how people take down others, Psalms 62 mentions that such actions and, certainly, the beliefs that worldly status means something, are just a falsehood. “God… Judges us by our works.”. God knows our hearts, our intentions, the entirety of our silence and the meanings we place on and in each. God knows, because He allows us to feel those ways. And, yet, He wants us to always look beyond those trivial (and juvenile) methods of thought, so that we may see His love, His passion, His mercy in all. I am but a body which covers a soul, a mind. What purpose is this vessel? To live, or to worship and give? God wants us. He wants us to see beyond the shackles we place on ourselves, generation after generation. We call ourselves intelligent, resourceful, wealthy of knowledge and action. Yet, truly, we show our most love to God by being blissful and ignorant to the constructs of our predicaments. I never once, since I’ve been saved, told God, “No.”. I’ve never once argued with God over what He wants me to do. I will speak my mind, shrug off the responsibility as though a heavy cloak, but God knows my heart and plays its chords just so I turn back around and do as He has me do. That I am able to come back shows His love. He does not give us time, but allows us to take time from Him and still benefit and be blessed by His presence and welcoming arms. And God knows how we view ourselves is relative. The ayatollah and the pastor are two of the same; though fundamentally different, they hold God’s word in view of His people for the betterment of mankind. Yet, they are constructs of their place and timing in this world. They are not each greater than the other, but they are the same. And, so, God says that the rich and the downtrodden are of the same make: they are not their material goods, they are not their responsibilities or their benefits or detriments to society. They are, together, lighter than a breath. They are, inside their shells and vessels, the same. God gave them both the ability to emote and to understand His bearings on their lives. The rich will have more, and so the poor will want, but to God they are the same and no different. The disparity is a piece of the human condition. Hence why Jesus was sent by God as an Everyman: There is no value in abundance, except to feed and fill the people. Jesus is the greatest example, and, in His travels and teachings, He was and is the realization for humanity that what we strive for, outside of God and communion, means nothing. Heaven doesn’t have a currency or a bartering table. Heaven is freedom from the idea that we are not already His, and the freedom from the idea that we need anything more than His presence and His love.

half my life

half of my life was spent forgetting half more, and, now that i’m older, i can see that our memory is what makes us who we are and gives us the ability to be who we need to be for ourselves.

half of my life is spent remembering half more, and, now that i’m older, i can say that where i’ve been has made me who i am and gives me opportunity to be who i need to be for our family.

i don’t like specifics. they weigh me down, and it’s not my way. i like the existential genericness that comes with commonalities. in short, i like to be open to a wide group who can make these words their own. that’s what writing is about: i don’t write for me, i write for who will read me. i want them to experience what i’ve felt, maybe not how i felt it, but to see how i got to where i ended up, so, perhaps, they can see that in their own lives. my greatest accomplishment would be to have someone read through everything i’ve written and come out with a greater understanding of themselves. if they know me, great, but that’s not my goal. and goals are a funny thing: they change. i used writing as a form of expression that can be hidden and yet spoken/written/given away. now, i don’t want to hide. i want to just put it out there and see (or hope that) others pick up and use them as a conduit.

just like this Notepad window, the box resizes. the area from which we work expands, contracts, alters the way my words appear. and that’s okay. that’s why timelessness is important. if i attempt to attain relevancy in only my time/my generation/my circumstances, then what good am i when English is no longer spoken by my descendants? translatability is important. i’m not painting here, i’m writing. i’m not showing people what they need to see, i’m helping them get to the point where they can see and do see. i’m not a tour guide, i’m a sherpa. i don’t have the talent to paint or draw, so i leave that up to those who can. rather, i’d like to type out the directions and make them as confusing as possible so people have to think for themselves. a friend of mine once said, in high school, that to read a poem is really only reading the first and last two lines. he was right. the substance within means nothing if someone doesn’t want to read the work, so for that person the poem is 3 lines. for some, a poem is the first line or word. i guess that’s one reason why i don’t like titles, or i like for titles to be the first line: people are forced to read the first line twice, which may be all that’s needed to better put them in the frame of mind that they can enjoy the work.

don’t get me wrong. i don’t write for everyone alone. i see myself in what i write and regain what i felt when i wrote it. known by few, i have a horrible memory for events. oddly, i can recall emotions from the events more so than what happened. maybe that isn’t odd; maybe that’s normal, but i won’t know that because i’m only one: me.


I don’t care to write stylized and metered verse. I like to be raw. I like to jot down how I feel and give it to the world. The very small world that reads these.

Honestly– to be completely honest– I don’t take ownership of what I write. That allows me a freedom to always disavow intent to be good. It’s silly to say an uncut diamond is dull; of course it is when unpolished. I always say my work is unedited, unfinished, “just an idea.” Really, it’s not loved enough to be revised. Sure, when one or two stick out, I’ll edit them and act like I’ve taken the time to grow them as a form of art, but really I just didn’t want to show them THAT raw. I have like 2 (!) poems that I think of when I recall what I’ve written, and that’s it. I’ve literally written thousands (don’t think this site has everything– I save a few for myself if too whimsical or personal or confusing, and a few out of thousands adds up). I’m nearing my 500th poem on this site. That hasn’t escaped my gentle humility, and I’ve thought of how to make sure the poem uploaded as the 500th is as normal as the rest. But, truth is, I don’t want it to be. I want to be the writer I can be, having been through what I have and going through what I am now. No life is ordinary, and few are not worth reading. Those few would be of the vain. No, I know the 500th will be typical. Otherwise, I may not meet expectations, and that would set me back.

Shallow Pools

“People look for depth in the most shallow of pools, and become enamored with their own reflections rather than see the chaotic dribble of the rain.”

To my buddy Ted, who dislikes people thinking those of an early demise are somehow deeper/better than they actually were.


If you ain’t fertilizing the earth, you’re just shit.

Repurposing a line from Wu-Tang’s, “Reunited”

Time and That Other Thing

Time. Time slips by as redundant tickings of the keys. A melody is made, though no great note is made. Of pools the eyes swim. In little jabs at this sensory bubble, we notice only that which has been made evident to us. All else is new discovery not brought up in our training. Words wander, thoughts throw themselves, and eyes endure. We know what has been taught to us. We remember the silly things to think they are unique to us. But, the bee remembers. The beetle knows I altered its path. My friend will remind me every now and again of that moment. The silky things are shared– for the most part, though I know our conversations remain bewildering to memory. I like it that way. You would tell me in whispers of a passing wind. I would listen. I, who listened only to himself and they who have a melodic beat. I would listen. You turned my head from tunneled site to branch of humanity. Humanity. That silly word which means what we are but describes few of us. Odd.

musings & scribbles