Body and Soul

Mine is a body shaped for tender loving

languid in length, soft in composition.

It has never known hunger

nor the thirst of the desert.

The smooth skin of the palms attests

to a life of leisure.


This body is beauty.

The lips were made to kiss,

the eyes to gaze into.

The waist was shaped with the intention

that another’s arm would circle around it.

There is a hollow under the collarbone

shaped for a head to rest.


Mine is a mind that hovers

on a duality of independence and isolation.

It is an Artemisian wilderness

Moonlight on the dance of a single sorceress

bathed in virginal glory.


Mine is a mind of cathedral caverns

in which dwell, deep and still, silent lakes.

The longer I remain hidden from the sun,

The less I see color, the less I see light.

I scream out, but the reverberations that return

to me are further evidence

of how alone I am.





I lived my life in the long cool mornings of fall, and you,

You lived yours in warm and vibrant summer nights

Your air was laden with exotic spices from-


And mine with the cool fresh smell of mint.

You are a wharf rat, and I-

I am the child of farmers.

You lived from harbor to harbor- dock to dock

Working your way around the wild east

I live in the valley, the one you see

From mountains, hidden in fog

I drank the tart cider squeezed from autumn apples and the

Clear water that ran from mountain snowmelt.

You drank wine- spiced wine, warm wine-

Heady wine that coaxed the tendrils

Of your tangled mind

When I lie awake at night, I hear the contemplative call

Of owls, the wild chorus of coyotes

Or perhaps the lonesome

Cry of a fox.

And you, you hear the creak of wood, flap of canvas sail,

Lapping of water, gently hungering for you

Safe in your hammock.

I awake at cock crow, to the coo of mourning dove, and the

Genial shouts of farmhands, the cattle low for their

Breakfast and milking

And you, wherever you are, wake to the strange

Lamentations of a holy man in a tower

Singing in the morning prayer.

In a tavern attic, out of work, you don’t fall back asleep

Or begin your day, just lie-

Lie and listen-

Every sense straining,

For dawn.

On the Inside

It’s easy, when your on the outside looking in, to define emotion, label it, and kid ourselves we know what it is. But when it is you tossed in the midst of a storm, it’s hard to put a name to it. It’s hard to describe, but I want to try it, because that is how writer’s get a grasp on things. Besides, I want someone, somewhere to understand what I’m going through.

I call it depression or anxiety. I’ve never been to psychiatrist, I have no idea if there is anything “wrong” with me. It just hits me, bolt out of the blue, a convoluted mixing pot of truly horrible emotions. I feel myself pulsing with a dark energy that I just can’t let it out. I feel the world so deeply, but am unable to express what I feel. I look around at my so called friends and see them all raised on a weak broth of shallow  comedy. They have not an original thought. All that matters to them is the next laugh.

I can’t talk to any one of them. They wouldn’t understand, they might laugh. Or worse, they’d pretend understanding, nod sagely and rattle off some second hand notion. Everything is one big fucking joke. There’s a hatred, a disgust for this shallowness, a hollowness so pervasive it affects even me. Who the fuck am I? I’m brain chemistry and surplus repression. I’m part of this pointless joke.

There’s a yearning for something better. To be who I am, to know who that is. To have someone untainted by the Joke. An artist’s soul, a philosopher’s eye. I long for proximity. My head resting against a neck or a chest, a hand in mine, breathing. And most importantly, someone to talk to.