My name

A thousand times my name be called,


Yet, in the mirror, devil is all I know.


Dear Brave Souls

Dear Brave souls,


This is to every woman, man, child, standing today against a wave of hatred and separation. You are the forefront of an age-old battle, given down through the generations; one of power and domination. Know that progression is where we find a brighter future. Know that we are stronger together. Know that we fight for each other unselfishly, rather than for personal power. Unity can defeat greed. And if we stay together, if we stay smart we will stay stronger than those who wish to separate the progress we have made from the future we are building. Do not let those who look to the cruelty of history for their inspiration shake your resolve to do what you know to be right. Stand together and keep each other safe.  With much love.


One of seven billion.


What is one heart amongst a crowd?

A single beat among thousands?

A drop of blood in a river of viens?

If all were silence

The beating in a crowd

Would be all that’s heard.

The deafening thumping.

All contained in our bone cages.

What is one heart amongst a crowd?

A life within a network?

A human in all of humanity.

With every new life each year grows

One year longer. 

With every death one year grows

One year shorter.

Time is spent at the speed of a second

Over the length of a lifetime.

What is one heart? Amongst seven billion?

Mind the mind.

The mind is a funny thing as it runs on its own. Self-perpetuation whizzing and burning on a course to soar out of your mouth on its way to the sky. The pulse beats in the bone orb imperceptible to us. Until it complains. The pounding of an overworked thinker beating for a moment to feel weaker, a moment for the body to perpetuate on auto piolet. Fatigue is the crucks of the breaking of genius, that grand moment to test the mental medal. Wave after wave of sleep washes over the over worked and yet still bored mind. A and B fit the same and reverse in singular boredom. The trick of the weary and pleasure of the bored is to find how A & B are never combined. The mind is a funny thing when driven by the bored

Subectivity of Objectivity

Blindness falls on the children of the privileged. They come up and up and up and learn to replace themselves but not to better their surroundings. What care would they need put in anything that is not themselves? What effort should they really exude? How could they really make a difference? Their each only one person. Each only one. One made of each ignoring the problems around them. One made into the mass of blind that can no longer observe themselves in the objective. The one who breaks from the many has learned the subjectivity to be objective in an ignorant world. Our ignorant world. They have come up from the slums to the highs of education. And sad, sad knowledge of the truth of oppression. But the blind will not see if they continue to look at their own two feet.

A Woman I Call My Own

I have a love of which I knew nothing of until the day she walked into my life. I can no longer see what is beyond the cloud of my horizon. For it is no longer only mine. But a future that is shared by her and I and if I were to use my powers of foresight to see what the world will bring for me, I would be excluding the beautiful possibility of that which is now mine and hers; to hold one another. It is the love of my life in my arms and on my shoulder as oft’ as the night falls. She is the flame that was waiting to burst forth. That false flicker I felt before has flittered back into its flint beginnings. Now a roaring inferno, hot breath of flames has brought me to the point of desperate infatuation with a woman I call my own.


I am home. So I bite my tongue
I am home. Don’t start a fight
I am home. I, almost rested
I am home. Never quite fill a lung
I am home. Where I can’t be right
I am home. No one else tested
I am home. Opinions are flung
I am home. They live on fright
I am home. Everything attested
I am home.

Go home. Find the place to rest
Go home. Lay your heart to bed
Go home. Stay with your dove
Go home. Recognize every test
Go home. Rethink what you read
Go home. You’re not above
Go home. What you know is best
Go home. Clean out your head
Go home. Look at your love
Go home.


Their right and we’re wrong. They sing it in a song that has never been looked at as a true or significant work. All “other” any that do not see our eyes in the same shade and focus. But perspectives are beautiful because of the mistaken angle and misgiving that seem to dangle. To you it is a horse galloping over the hill waiting to ride off into salvation. To me it is the first horseman coming to swipe our heads from our shoulders. I am terrified. You are magnified. I want you to understand that my fear is not one of palpable experience but of futuristic fissures that fill my vision with violence. You want me to understand that tough love and strict guidance will lead to a happier and safer place among the already high paced world. I say to calm and beg to sit. You rise and raise me up with you. The emotion is too deep on our toes, lower the pressure by sitting in a dark room listening to the heart beats. Please. Please hear the voice that is not spewing from your own recorder and listen to someone else’s station for a little while. See the world through the binoculars of another and focus on that promised land of their ancestors. We see so easily what is in our view… Because it is there from our womb. It is the difficulty and struggle of understanding another’s angle that broadens your horizons and opens the world to more than our tomb. I do not fear my death because I do not stare at it in the face. I walk with my fragile life and see death as the option to martyr or be a waist. We choose our life and the path that we walk, all I ask is that we all put down our sticks and talk.