there’s glory after this

and hope to carry us there

seems so cliché when

we’ve become so accustomed to fear of the invisible and distance between us and those who should be the closest

the energy required to decipher lies and discern spirits is much more than i anticipated — how about you?

failed attempts to mend broken connections like dropped calls in dead spots on country roads that remind me of Saturday morning rides with my great-gram and great-aunt that i unfortunately dreaded at the time

i miss them both now — and i wish i had known back then just how much i would eventually be willing to give for just one more ride today

just one more

and watch the barns and tobacco fields swoosh by my window

hear them laugh again as we headed to pick strawberries in hot sunlight that bathed me —

at least i have the memories

i miss the movies

movies aren’t supposed to be predictable.

it’s the little shocks and surprises that make blinking seem disrespectful and the expensive popcorn prices more reasonable.

it seems like an antiquated practice now that planet earth got sick and couldn’t come out to play for a year—but, i miss the movies.

arriving early, alone, hopefully in a seat next to no one, waiting for the opening credits and ads to finish—listening for the director’s choice of opening music and the writer’s selection of initial dialogue—excited to be thrusted into another world that will make me forget about mine for an hour and fifty-four minutes.


interestingly enough, i think we became the movies in the March of 101 score anno domini.

we became the star-studded cast and the nervously anxious onlookers simultaneously.

we watched ourselves maneuver through a plot summary filled with hero’s and heroine’s journeys, suspense, climaxes and cliffhangers designed for the most skilled thespians—and we never auditioned.

not a single curtain call.

and the location scout decided that the whole world would do just fine.

i suppose art grew weary of imitating life and vice versa—

they decided to become one.


an unnoticed, precious soul

overlooked and lodged in distant desert sands …

how lucky i am to have lost my say on roads to … unreachable glory

and to have found

myself, you.

us both.


within —

lives all aspects of the beauty,
and love,

that i was once fooled into thinking,
lived without.

may i never be fooled again.



hours spent pursuing a version of a hidden self that used to scare me.

one that embodies my pains and my joys.

undiscovered, and bubbling from the rocky soil of a soul that still manages to be fertile at high altitudes and extremely high temperatures.

your light looks like lava.

and so does mine.

red tinted photons light my bedroom and it pleases me.

it reminds me of fires that we’ve learned to avoid from experience.

touched stoves become teaching grounds for optimistic toddlers who need swift lessons in life if they are to survive.

and become greater than the limits and constraints that the world looks so eagerly forward to placing on them.

don’t accept them.

from journeying across the Savannas, land bridges, Nile rivers and middle passages, searching for homes that were never meant to be constructed of wood, stone, earth, water or air…

…all that’s left for us is the blazing, beautiful, purging, fire.


i’ve never

understood why

my dreams

are so colorful

when i fall asleep,

the palettes always

look more vivid than

the ones in the real world

assuming it’s a world…

that’s real,

and not scrambled computer code

in a simulation that we’ll make one day

…and forget about

a game of definitions, honestly

at this point,

i think i’m okay with that

being told what something is,

or should be,

[including myself]

by people who barely know me,

but by some advanced and divine revelation,

know what’s best for me,

and who i need to become…

…as if i’ve never heard the God in me on my own.

i suppose everything comes full circle.

and “i love you” gets encoded, scrambled and mistranslated along the way.

i pi you too.


it feels like,
sea voyages,
and islands visible from afar,
backward flowing currents pulling me away,

slowly enough to not lose sight of the palm trees and soft sand,

but fast enough to turn my paddling into place holding with no propulsion,



still here.

closeness never felt so far.

sight never felt so blind.

and letting this current pull me further from you is the most addictive pain.

what would happen if i let go?

would you notice?

i wonder.


i was never too keen on swimming

it wasn’t as secure as walking

and far less common in the city i grew up in

where the way you walked could easily define you

the ground

i was used to

it was familiar

but i watched and wondered from many pool sides

to be fair

i admired the arms and legs

slicing through blue liquid

propelling cookie and cream bodies

that seemed to be so fearless


unconcerned with the possibility of


unlike me

so i watched

in fear and in longing

i only watched

it’s funny

i get the same feeling when i think of you

the same fear

the same longing


i’ve never been too keen on swimming

how about you?

i need to get back to writing

i need to get back to writing

but the termites of disappointment

have eaten so many of my pencils


i must see how many number nines
God has hidden in this cloudy mind of mine


i need

to get back to writing




i still dream vividly

when the clouds break at night



and i’m moved