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Nothing to fear except fear itself

as comforting as telling a child

in a dark room the only thing to be afraid of

is the dark

I want to say this is reducous

I can’t say this is ridiculous

the man who said it was standing

with the aid of obscured scaffolding

his fragile legs obscured by the podium

he could not stand

but he stood

facing           the barrel

down             the tracks

w            atching as the blood

a   nnd snarling insatiable

wo oolf chugs down the lines

devouring boundaries

w            iping lands ffrom the face of the planet

destroying history of millions


can’t compare myself

only a narcissist could

but when           I sit

my words caught                                 in my throat

silence w r rapping its long strong fingers

aro wund my neck

choking me with cacophonous nothing



I feel it

I feel     it      inme

it makes me   rigid   and   stiff

a straightjacket that none can undo except t h e prisoner

I am Hhaarry Hhooudini but I forget

thththe key wrests on my tongue and

all I need to do is rest and let the bindings slip from their         holds

w rapping



the bindings

sometimes they  aa r  nothing

usually they are just around my legs

and  I have to hop

or w alk sideways

people say that do not notice my gait

my limp

I carry  a crutch that is  apparently  invisible to  all

except myself

it weeights heavily iin my hands

other days Iyam drowning

I am floundering

imagine being under waterdrowwwningrescue

i i is in ffrontd of you

but out of reach

all you need to do is shout

But You Can’t



The Water Is Imposing It self



surrounding you




a silence that hurts

a silence that forces itself upon you

He stood even though he could not stand

I speak even though I cannot speak



I don’t know why, but I am in a very poetic mood.

I have been feeling a wee bit melancholy and philosophical as of late… Maybe the fact I have been reading some Eliot and Dawkins simultaneously has something to do with it.


I always feel a little narcissistic publishing poems, but hey, nobody is making you read it.


The Wright

you are free to fly

so fly to me

let it go

and let it be

washed away in the blustering sea

rasped by sand in the violent breeze


hello I call

hello I call and yet you seem

to act as if you do not hear

hello I call and yet you seem

to be oblivious to my scream

I cannot pretend to be pacified

my love cannot be denied

a love I bled

drained me dry

a love I bled

until I died


I would do it again

and again

but once was enough

it had to be

if not there is no hope

if once was not enough

it could not be done at all

I have made a way

fashioned a vessel

by my hands

by my skill

the wood

the nails

my hands bleeding from the work

my passion poured into the vessel

crowned the king of the shipbuilders


living in the belly of the great wooden fishes

weaving the planks along the skeletons


patron of the craft

many tried before

many try since

to swim

to fashion a raft

from the decaying jetsam

that suits their desires

to cling to that

which is the product of nature

not above it

able to withstand it

from within

elemental to the foundation

I watch

I wait

my boat sits

empty on the shore

waiting to be

the salvation


the public library

the whitewashed walls of the bastion of knowledge

standing in the midst of the world of

uneducated unwashed poorly bred

as a beacon of the well read

clean shaven

Dewey decimated

It was replicated

organizing the collective wisdom in the world

bursting at the seams

a temple dedicated to educating the masses

middle aged eyes watch behind bifocled glasses

as the world trickles in

to set hands on the volumes

the thirsty cavalcade

this mission carried for decades




this would seem to be the savior

the tool to spread the knowledge held

But what it really spelled

the influx

the surge

the need

the death knell

the library became

the gate to the world

through cable and wire

the masses came in

to read

to watch

to do

but what happened

the computer became to gate into the library

the bufotic man looking at dating profiles

the grandmother reading fox news

the middle aged man


nose against the screen


as the cannon blasts the balloons in the online game

the librarians watch

as the books they love are being replaced by plastic

thin tablets

devoid of the organic luster of paper


they hemorrhage into the ether

as the unclean washes in to take its place

what was the temple of wisdom

is now the brothel of information

Things I like

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