Your Fresh Flesh

Fresh FleshThe mottled flesh, only slightly more healthy
Than the adjacent green glow.
Dried blood a juxtaposition of life and death
In the arid desert.

Pride fuels my hate, and drives me to be
You say you want to help the children,
But you only want to help yourself.

The country’s largest inner city wildlife and nature refuge.
Full of people passing, and pissing, and trashing and being
The sort of sub-ape, truly antisocial, sociopaths
That only HUMANS are capable of.

Rust, rot and ruin are signs of reverse progress.
So at least there was once some semblance or order.
But the progress I see us working towards
Make my vainglory anthem of self absolution,
Almost acceptable.


View from Below


The halo is black against a white background,
Complete opposite of what Sunday school taught me.

I believe that the light is good, brings life, and heat,
But oh, by the way, it causes cancer.

The purity of the white beyond the light, gives me peace,
But makes me wonder, if I can get that shade at the paint store.

Time and time again, we look up for answers.
But we’re under a roof of our own preconceptions, when we do.

Depth of Feeling

Ode to Robert Frost

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening is one of my favorite poems.  There is a sense of loneliness captured in those four stanzas that capture a lifetime of living.  Most of the poetry I’ve written doesn’t necessarily rhyme or follow a pattern.  But I’m so impressed with Frost’s ability to express so much within those confines, I had to try it.

Honestly, I don’t like what I’ve produced.  But I wanted to throw it out there and get some constructive criticism from those who are smarter than I am.  So please send me you criticism.  Positive, negative, indifferent.  I’d appreciate anything.

d. 2. oban


Ode to Robert Frost

Ode to Robert Frost
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

And I also have miles to go,
Before my worries I can stow
Sorrow in this forest runs deep
‘Massing at my feet as the snow.

No horse’s company to keep
Alone, the solitude I reap
I reflect on what I have sown
As the fingers of dawn do creep.

Rising sun expose that not shown
What sin have I to those I’ve known
Under shadow self elegy
Pride and reliance of my own.

Is it all lack of empathy?
Or friend become an enemy?
Does it even matter to me?
Does it even matter to me?

We are all…

Water 1We are all molecules of water, holding hands on a sub atomic level
rushing towards a waterfall, that will pass us from potential energy to, what?

Sand 1We are all grains of sand on beach, part of something bigger and more
Beautiful than a sing speck of metamorphic rock, broken down through time and stress.

Stars 1We are all stars in the night sky, a menagerie of heat, light, and hope
One in a number too high to count to.

Water 1But some of us are atomized going over the waterfall,
Turning to mist, being carried off by the wind.

Sand 1And others become stuck to the bottom of the young child’s foot,
To be brought home from his holiday, in the crevice of a shoe

Stars 1We are so far apart that one can only see our beauty from a vantage,
In which many of us are dead before the light from our lives is received by the observer.

Water 1The end to which we rush is tumultuous.  Frothy with change, and unknowing.
For those at the bottom have never returned to tell those at the top what to expect.

Sand 1Our beauty is in our numbers, but our desire is to be one, to be heard,
To be seen.  To make a difference as an individual.

Stars 1The lives we live may make a difference, to the satellites in our orbit,
But the light we shine into space may go unnoticed while we have the strength to shine it.

There is no power in a single molecule of water.  A single grain of sand is grit, and irritation.  A single star is too far away to be meaningful to another.

Can man drink a single molecule of water?  Can God build landfall from a single grain of sand?  Does the sun concern itself with the trivialities of electromagnetic fields on Earth?

The great paradox thus becomes:
To peak on our personal arc of achievement and purpose, we need the greater good,
But the greater good does not concern itself with the success of the individual.

How I Pissed off the LDS

Disclosure – I have friends that are members of the LDS Church.  They’re very nice people, and this post is not a comment on religion.  This just so happens to be the religion that is commented on in this post.

How I Pissed off the LDS
A friend gave me a copy of the “The Book of Mormon”
To open my mind, to give me a new perspective.
It was a little blue book.
I thanked him.
I read the book.
I put the book on a shelf.
I forgot about the book.

The years passed, the book gathered dust and I needed to move.
Vamanos, if you will.
So the book went into a garage sale
(I don’t discriminate religions, a bible went into the garage sale too).

I can’t stand having people go through my crap,
And my wife is better at driving a hard bargain,
For the cracked tub that was supposed to hold popcorn,
Because the explosive lettering on the side tells me so,
Though we never put anything but dust in that damn thing.

Since I couldn’t bear to watch someone judge me by going
Through my old Motely Crue cassette tapes, I went to work.
But the fun just started.

My wife, dear and lovely, and not convinced my foosball table
Was worth $500, did her wifely duty, and got rid of shovels and rakes,
Books and dishes.  Baby Clothes, Adult clothes, couches, TV’s etc.
Shit upon shit, if you’ll excuse my French.

Until one lady, holding a pair of dull and rusted hedge clippers
Began to hover
Around the bargain book bin.

My wife, busy with another “customer” interested in our crystal butter dish,
Kept an appraising eye.  Those were really dull hedge clippers.

Butter dish gone, .15 cents richer (seriously, at what point in time did they take the cent sign off of typewriters, word processors, keyboards, and cell phones?)
The woman was still hovering, but now with a book in hand.
Remember, my wife is the innocent bystander.
Garage sale beauty queen.

“Why are you selling this?”
The little blue book, still clinging to the years of dust,
Shoved too close to my wife’s nose.
She sneezed, or for this tale, I imagine she sneezes,
So it’s real to you.

“I don’t know, it was my husbands.
What do you think about those hedge clippers though?”
Always driving a hard bargain.

“Why would he get rid of this?  This is an important book.”



I hate people.  My wife loves people.
Where my soul is black and sticky,
Hers is bright and sticky.  Mine sticky with dead stuff.
Hers sticky with sugar and kindness.

But after 15 years of trying to keep her soul clean, a little bit
Of the black rubbed off.

Return to the garage sale.


This bitch…. My wife thinks incredulously, wondering if she just thought it,
Or I added it to the poem,
To let the reader know
This lady was a realllllll bitch.

“Yeah, my husband, he’s a real loose cannon.”
It’s true, she’s not lying.

“So you’re trying to sell this book of faith for 15 (c with a vertical line through it)?”
She didn’t say that part about the vertical line.  There just isn’t a cent symbol for the letter set for my printing press.

“Yeah, but I’ll give it to you for a nickel with those clippers.”
I love this woman.

This was not the response the holier than thou woman
With an acute need for trimming the hedges and an
Exaggerated need for compassion, as surely demonstrated by Joseph Smith,
For those of us who mistakenly put our book of Mormon in the
Garage sale where the holier than thou can find it.

Next time we’re making a book bin and labeling it
“For the Not-Holier-Than-Thou Only.”

Josephine Smith looked longingly at the hedge clippers,
Guiltily at Joseph Smith,
And angrily at my wife.

“I’m not buying anything from you.”
A reallllll bitch, this one was.

She stormed off leaving my wife with the book, the dust
the clippers, and the disappointment of not closing the deal.
Did I mention I love this woman?

My wife sets the clippers aside, hoping that
After looking into a magic hat, the lady would
Come back and buy those rusty, old, decrepit clippers
And tossed joseph smith back to the bargain book bin.

An ice cream ball, not an actual ball of ice cream,
But a ball that you put cold ice cream in, roll it around,
And take out warm milk, was sold.  Don’t ask me how.  My wife is pretty amazing.

Despite her best efforts, that foosball table was too nice
For any of the white trash that came to go through my trash.

Bam.  Out of the blue.  I’m sure it was a
Gorgeous blue Missouri sky,
The Bride of Joseph Smith returned.

Car idling at the end of the driveway, obviously in a hurry.
In my wife’s head,

In a half sprint, half not a sprint, she slid into the bargain book bin
Which had been cleaned out pretty well.
And sighed a huge breath of relief,
Blowing more dust off the blue book.

“I didn’t feel right leaving it here.  Someone should get
Good use out of it.”

God bless my wife, “And the clippers?”

The lady threw the 15 $/100 at my wife, and sped away like she’d robbed a bank.
While picking up the nickel and dime, my wife noticed the bible was still in the
Bargain book bin.

So 1 point for the Mormons.  Where you at Jesus Freaks?

My wife, turned to put the 15₵ (if you got to ‘insert’ ‘symbol’ you can put in something called a cedi) in our Garage Sale safe deposit box,

She heard a lovely old voice ask,

“How much for the clippers?”


Full Disclosure.  I’m sure the lady was very nice.

My Heart has become Homeless


I watch the homeless man watch the woman

His face half covered, like a vicious mockery of a masquerade mask,

by the greasy stained hood of the once maroon sweatshirt.

The lone eye peaking out, staring at the serrated and mechanical run

of the 40 year old woman, and her dog.

I can read his thoughts:

she eats so much food she has to run, she’s wearing workout clothes because she has workout clothes, she has a dog that she can take care of, that dog eats better than i do.

I hate the woman too, as I ride by on my Giant mountain bike.

without another thought for the homeless man on the bus bench

I’m blessed to be able to ride my bike over lunch for exercise.  Today over lunch I passed a man who appeared to be living on the streets.  This reminded of when I was in grade school and my folks took me into the city for a parade.  While driving through the city streets looking for a place to park, I saw my first homeless person, digging through the garbage, looking for food.  I remember crying, and my parents asking me what was wrong.  After I told them, they kept driving.  Today, after I saw the man I thought living on the streets, I kept riding.

For a portion of my life I’ve felt like I’ve had a heart for the homeless.  So much so that sometimes I would even tell my wife that I was going to help the homeless.  Or told myself that I had dreams of starting a homeless shelter.  I used to feel pangs of guilt and regret when I’d pass a someone on the entrance to the highway, asking for handouts.  I used to.

Somewhere along the way, I started to give up.  I made excuses.  I stopped making eye contact with them on the side of the road, and I generally stopped caring.  I wouldn’t even tell myself that I wanted to help.  I just didn’t.  I don’t know where I went wrong.  I tried all sorts of ways to justify it, or explain it away, or tell myself I’ll care about the homeless when I’m older and don’t have so many family responsibilities.  But the truth is, I lost my way, if I ever had it. Has anyone who is fortunate enough to have a blog or read a blog figured it out?  Is there a way to make caring for the homeless in a tangible way while supporting a family and pretending that writing is more important that helping those who have nothing?  Or have any of you been able to successfully tell yourself that it doesn’t matter?  There’s no social change embedded in this post.  There is only sad self reflection, and guilt.

d. 2. oban

Update – Amazing how this works.  Ran across this article this morning.  ‘The Science of Evil’.  Simon Baron-Cohen calls this empathy erosion, where humans are turned into objects