the ice  is so delicate

shot through with spider web fracture

though the danger lies not in crashing through

but in the bursting forth


i read once in an old book of Chinese tales

of a pompous ass of an official

who refused to heed the old monk’s warnings

and broke into the sacred vault where the demon lay waiting

to be fulfilled

and now

it’s just like that

the melting cries of an infant

drowning in the fire of it’s own tears

the whine and shriek of the shrapnel torn air

all the lights dimmed and flickering

muttered excuses so flimsy they are transparent

in the face of the frozen moment

seventy years of catastrophe


vexed to nightmare

no rough beast

only a slouch

a whim

a twitter

a twit.



he signs his name with a magic marker

held in a childlike fist




his friends watch

from the sidelines of the playground

and no one is laughing now


“we mean business”

he says

when everyone knows

we mean nothing

Nothing will come of Nothing.



Ritual 2

It is hot in this room and it will most likely get much hotter before the afternoon is out. Just beyond the double paned glass windows of this classroom, the late spring sun is vibrant against the apple green leaves of the trees and the purple hollows and rills of the  hills ringing this small city deep in the river valley, but I don’t see any of that as I’ve closed the blinds to allow my students to chill out and watch a movie. It doesn’t really matter what movie I’ve chosen because none of the students in this darkened classroom are watching the light being projected up on the screen. They are, instead, slouched about the room in some of the most striking examples of really bad posture imaginable. Curled up against the backs of the chairs or leaning over like human question marks doubled into themselves and the glowing screens of their cel phones. There is no actual social interaction in this room for the entire day. By lunchtime I feel so lonely I want to collapse onto the floor beneath my desk and go into a comatose sleep. But instead, I’m sitting here typing this to you, whoever you might be, wherever you might be.

I think to myself every once in a while I should get up and leave the room. Walk out into the open air, get in my car, and drive and just keep on driving until I run out of road. I have, however, no idea where to go or what to do once I get there. And then I realize that I have maybe already run out of road, sitting here  in this airless space, trying to realize a vision that has been made obsolescent by the sleek glassed panes of a pocket toy that responds to it’s viewer’s most shallow desire.

One thing is clear, that I am not, and have never really been welcome here. In this room or in this system. But I manage to hang on through my guitar and my scribbling, and my anecdotal reveries.

Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t a pessimistic rant about the state of the world. It’s just my current observations of the moment at hand. And the really great thing about this particular existence is that it is most certainly going to change, and from my experience, that change will take the most unexpected of forms.



On Meaning and Ritual. . .

From “Writing About Rituals and Rituals That Help Us Write” by Jessica Mesman Griffith (Creative Nonfiction Magazine, Issue 65):

“. . . the first step is to dutifully record. Ask yourself the following questions when writing about ritual:

What is in front of you?
Behind you?
Look all around you and notice the specifics of the space you are in.
Why are you there?
Who else is there?
Who is leaving?
Who is paying attention and who is not?
Who is crying?
Is this a familiar or unfamiliar place or event?
Do you feel welcome or unwelcome?
Do you feel like you belong?”


Grace and Gravity

Sunlight strikes the forest leaves.

Silence settles between the sounds

Of wings upon the wind.

I settle back

And gaze into the blue sky space between

The branches of the trees

I breath in

I breath out

My heart is still


For your voice

To bestow your grace

To dispel my gravity