An Introvert’s Ballad

Silence sings an introvert’s ballad.

Silence makes no demands,
And it is immune to neglect.
It neither judges nor rejects,
Welcoming each fearless heart.

Always accommodating,
It turns away not a single one.
All who seek an embrace
Will find it, warm and waiting,
In solitude.

Guarding his silence,
He wades through noise
Like a warrior, assured
After a war hard won.

Guarding his silence,
He sees the world’s unfolding,
Past illusions waver like red silken sheets
Slipping from the thighs of a lover,
Laying, bare and breathless,
With the sumptuous winds of
Possibility tracing their ways –
Tickling along sensuous nerves –
To the longing seat of power.

Undisturbed, she moves through
The crowds. Unphased, she responds.
Understood by that which is unknown
To so many, she smiles in the dark
And breathes in the night.

How sweet it is to rest alone
Unbothered by thoughts.

A Daydreamer’s Nightmare

When the daydream is over, we wake where we were
With the times had an echo, an obscuring blur

Wisps of feeling—stubbornly struggling—occur
When the daydream is over, we wake where we were

The mourning dark, scrawled words with a slur
With the times had an echo, an obscuring blur

The heart’s drive still standing, a European silver fir
When the daydream is over, we wake where we were

The quest of the loner than none can deter
With the times had an echo, an obscuring blur

The ache of yesterday, a mind softly stirred
With the times had an echo, an obscuring blur
When the daydream is over, we wake where we were


Another’s hands –
Such a dangerous place
To keep your heart

But in your own chest?
Such wasted beats

Never fear a broken heart
You’re in good company
For it’s the dreamer’s ache

No one ever said
This was gonna be easy


At the heart of things –
Driftwood carrying tides,
The names of two young
Lovers etched into the grain

There is a beauty to the irreverence,
To the irrationality, subtle hints
At a logic far too simple
To be understood

Drifting, each of us carried
By the tides of our own humanity,
Past the rules, past the people,
past the fears, the plans,
the words, the reasons,
Past the past –

A smile
A glimpse
A tomorrow

Twisted Tongue

Desire—the linchpin of action
Emotions flashing out like
Like cars on a light rail
Passengers busy themselves
Between terminals

Some never get off

Fear, sex, hope, and heat
A life of pale memories
Ghosts peaking up through
The dimly lit passages etched
In gray matter, a labyrinth
Snaring a soiled lizard
Whose venom blood
Is filtered into purest water
As it rises to the surface

No amount of knowledge
Has been able to free him
From himself

Watching cars switch tracks,
He rolls restlessly in sodden sheets
If the world would bend, he could be happy
Like the spoon in the Matrix, shifting
And twisting to his will

But nothing bends, and the smooth
Surfaces so often grow transparent
Revealing the stained, crooked teeth
That gnaw on the heart of the world

The war between self-concepts,
The Ideal a Tantalusian torture
And acceptance the numb glow
Of the Buddha’s opium den

Akin to all the rest, he sees himself,
The Ideal, the ghost of could-be
Haunting the dysfunctional present
Unable to be bent into is

Calling, calling across infinitudes
The vision returns a muted echo,
Voiceless lips stunted by static

Oceans of hatred, fear, and misery
Of longing, of contempt, and envy
He burns within the quiet fire
Of quickening contractions:

“I want to be!” his heart whispers
The world, a stone-faced pus sack
Doesn’t even hear

“I just want to play!”
That is his heart, his core –

Yet in meeting such squalor
Serious lines bleed from his fingers
And cover the minds of readers
In his own blood

“I just want to play!”
Held hostage by his own patterns,
None can help him,
He must do it himself.

Truth is…

Always aware of his errs,
He draws closed the blinds,
The rays of better judgment

Acknowledged by squinting eyes,
But cast aside by an adventurous mind.

A martyr for poetism,
He continues without respite
In the name of glorious

Come one, come all!
Behold the incredible
Drowning Man!

Why does he drown?

He’s just taking a drink,
But he has a big mouth.

Is there hope for him?

Love and love only
Will give him the courage
To be himself.

Who is he?

This time is not his own,
His dying lineage of poets and gentlemen
Are looked upon coolly by the reasonable eyes
Of the postmodern world.

To be himself is to
Disappoint everyone else,
For the world eats poets,
And the pragmatist would
Rather see him dead
Than happy, for his
Happiness is a disease
That sweeps up
Those with well-thought lives
And turns them into

An endangered species, he wanders
Cluelessly through the days waiting
For something to happen. He lives
By a bell ringing muted beneath
Layers of dust. Rusted and cracked,
The aching beauty of a broken heart
A voice off-key, and the pining
Dream of another here.

Truth is he’s afraid.


We stopped talking when things got too real,
We stopped embracing when she knew my feelings.
A man of honor has a bleeding tongue,
Holds himself close so as to never harm
The ones who love him.
He suffers.

Pain in her presence and agony apart,
That cutting gray of mind thus parting.
But a man of honor has songs unsung,
Scolds himself, deaf to the alarm
That screams above him.
He suffers.

“You did the right thing,” is cold
Comfort when you’re alone,
Wandering all the roads
That could’ve been walked,
Now merely known by
The closed lids of fantasy –
Now but memories that never were;
A host to imagination.

And yet as the years tumble madly by,
I find it harder to recall your laugh,
Your scent eludes me, and the yearning,
Once so engulfing, is now a faded
Photo taken long ago, found
In someone else’s attic.

Was it honor or fear of loss that
Stayed my hands, words, and cock?

Now, I am no stranger
To departures. The
Man who came
Before me is
A mystery.

For one who says nothing, gets nothing.
This should surely be known, something
That sticks to our brain pans. Fear
Of loss, the destroyer of lives.
You will lose it all regardless,
None can cheat time.

With everything waiting
To be swept away, what is there
To lose? All is forgotten and all
Is forgiven by the centuries.

The heart forgets.
That’s how it keeps beating.

Remember that,
The heart forgets.