Child of the past of the father of the future

I see you there 
on the other side
of forty-seven,

waiting for me
like a father,
like a child,

looking up,
looking back,
waiting for me

to catch up,
to start making
sense of what I see.

Well, stop.
I won’t do it.
I can’t do it.

This is why I 
do what I do
and you know it.

So stop. Stop waiting.
Stop wasting both
of our times.

I’ll get there 
when I get there
or maybe I won’t.

You’ll just have to 
wait and see or
wait and not see.

It’s all the same to me.
I don’t care anymore.
I will do what I do.



“The world is a stew,” 
he said.  “it's all a 

boneyard,” he said.
There for the picking.

And now, the pot 
itself is melting.

The stew is a study 
in oxidation and rust.

The first of its kind.
The last of its kind.

“The world is a stew,”
he said.  Get a fork.

Un-Cooked, a haiku sonnet

(inspired, yet again, by a conversation with Natalie/potterfan97)

here’s a piece for you—a 
slab on the boards waiting for 
the knife of your eyes.  

it drips from my mouth.  
there is blood in it.  there is 
iron and weakness 

in it.  it turns from 
red to ochre in the air.  
can you smell it?  it's 

starting to rot.  can 
you stomach it?  your gut must 
match its emptiness 

or it will infect you and 
eat you from within.

Phriday Photo Gallery: In the studio

The dance studio, that is…

(click on gallery to view images)
(please note: I can not reply to comments left on individual images)

false face 5 (mirrors of our words)


What is worse?  To write a fiction about the truth of who I am
to try and convince you that this claim about my own truth is not a lie?

Perhaps I would do better not to tell.

false face 4 (mirrors of our words)


If I tell you of all the charities 
I do work for, aren't I really just 
saying, "Look at what a giver I am"?

“I'm good aren't I?”

“Tell me. 
Tell me again.” 

“Here is my ego.  
Stroke it, please… that...
...right there.”