An Unnamed Room

The Formica traced a trail of  ruddy tears…to the unnamed Room.

Deep inside the tomb…

my oblique glasses held visions of dull switch blades.

Dancing  through the corners of my soul like,

like bloody sugar canes sent to alleviate my decay.

Sliding between the ceramic maze…

a hell to be razed.

Alas, the vow.

For little do your midget demons know,

it was written long ago,


a wall made of cork…

‘straight jackets cannot subdue the heart.’

unnamed room 11

There will be many more congruous to me.

Something your nefarious pathology seems to have forgot.

A puzzle piece to your frenzied stabs at inner peace.

A blood run to my door.

Thus, as love turns black and blue.

I will forever be waking up instead of coming to.

Highly Inappropriate


highly inappropriate 3

These tricks of the heart…

no different from the fine lines of winter’s turbulent season.

and, what of,

the squalls of change that come and go for no reason.

The battle will rage on with seasons influx…

highly inappropriate 2lust for the infinite state of conformity’s trust.

Though, far off,

extreme wooden sanctum…

beat the savage beat of a different drum.

highly inappropriate 1

A rare certain ambiguous solace can fall from stormy skies.

A distinct weathered pattern…

relinquished onto a particular kind.



caught always looking up for an out of reason for the season…sign.



“Boredom doesn’t come from lack of activities but rather from your own limitations and ideas of fun. Appropriate behavior, normalcy and perfection is what you make of it. But just in case you’re bored with perfect, come over to the dark side. Us circus freaks know a thing or two about thorough entertainment.”
― Sofia


the Revival

The Revival

I am progress...not perfection!
I am progress…not perfection!
self searching = successful spiritual consumption
self searching = successful spiritual consumption

Through the quiet of the bedlam

You, indeed, are the victor.

Within the communal solitude of your hope

You, indeed, are the humble 

host to harmony.

Restoration erected by lack of will alone

You, indeed, are amongst the fanciful faithful few.

My Momma’s Pride

Conventionality bars the truth from the bias
Conventionality bars the truth from the bias

Back before Rainbows were known to exist other than in the light of day…after a fresh and linen covered spring rain, I had thought something amiss.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like the God I had been shown. It had been more of a fear based and obscure presence that never released its grip on me.
Hatred, hangings, crosses to bare and/or bear and sins over running my beer mug! How distant the feelings I had been? No further away than the ache within my heart.
‘Was I bad? Had there been a mistake? Will this strange and unusual creature of habit…Me, change her ever-present freak stripes?’
Did I know gay? Brevity, maybe? Men with odd tastes for polyester and spangles. Or, perhaps, the ‘gay’ twenties where the roar came from the pits of rooms locked behind store fronts with no names.

Do Not Pester the Pride!
Do Not Pester the Pride!

Somewhere between the playing out of roles: Who gets to be Sabrina and who gets to be Farrah/Jill? Somehow linked from one end of the Good News Bible and my passion for watering down my ache. Between the sheets and not discrete attempts at playing ‘straight’…it all came out wrong like a bad love song.
I cried, of course, I shed tears…I do to this day.
How is it my parent’s child cannot be straight? What a disappointment, once again, in the normal kids rule class?
It is a shame my grandfather disowned me with words.

‘It is an abomination to mankind and a sore on the ass of the world’, he would have most likely whispered loudly to his uniformed friends.
The train that took me so many times before into a land of semi comfort and acceptance left South station and never looked for me again.
How difficult it must be not to know where to begin your history…when your past has been clouded by bias and poor judgement by the powers that be.
In the end, I sat a six-pack down on an oak table in the heart of This Land is Your LandNew Hampshire. I shook and wondered what will become of me? I waited until she arrived. She held my tiny hand and fresh kissed skin when I arrived in this world.   And most likely, I will hold her hand as she departs for greener pastures.
‘I have something you need to know…I can’t hide it anymore. It’s just how it is!’
No response from her or a language of body movements would have helped. The room seemed shallow and filled with demon ghosts from confusion past.
‘I am GAY! I’ve tried to not be…but it just ain’t working.’
These were the rhetorical words that still carry the burden of my nonconformist ways today. A forever covenant… in which I feel safe enough to unveil even the darkest of truths.

Go answer your calling  Go and fill somebody's cup  And if you see an angel falling  Won't you stop and help her up
Go answer your calling
Go and fill somebody’s cup
And if you see an angel falling
Won’t you stop and help her up



“Oh, is that it? I was waiting for you to figure that out…Well, dear,  as long as it will make you happy”
We never really understand the understanding statements we make until the clouds lift and we see the light. My mother, bless her sainted heart, most likely felt she didn’t say enough.
My mother had said with few words what the world should be learning everyday:

…as long as you’re happy…

Really isn’t that all that matters when it comes to matters of the heart?

Judge-ment Gay


Hadn’t written much this past week.  Kind of felt I shouldn’t.  Where there are bad thoughts….Well, you know how the story goes.

Yet, IT has been praying on me…This horribly mass-produced word…HATE.  And, that other disgustingly ‘deemed’ appropriate for all ages other word…ABUSE!.

Honestly, I had sat back for a long time.  Knowing I had come out of the closet and had no other ‘crosses’ to bare!  Honestly, that shit ain’t true.

As a lay person to almost every school of thought on spirituality.  As a former child star to the catholic church…I spun myself into thinking…my life had not been that bad.  That the events that produced by vain attempts at heterosexuality…had been roads that needed crossing.  Bridges that needed burning.

Not so.

Though my parents have never blatantly shunned by homosexuality.  There were many times, yesterday and today and most likely in the future, where they will hold their tongue.  Beg out of a conversation…say, after church, during coffee time at the recreation hall.  A brief glimpse into the life of catholic parents to a homosexual daughter.  Minutes produced by a question like…’So, what does your daughter’s husband do for work?’

I understand that ‘proper-ness’ to some extent.  It is the secret life to which many live.  Those afflicted with mental illness, deformity, lack of love and/or the branded ‘unique’.

I too, do not extend a ‘gay’ hand when meeting some for the first time. I suppose it is habit.  I suppose it is shame.  I suppose I am still learning to be me.

When I had been in Folk Group at the St. John the Blah, Blah, Blah, church.  I had chance to meet a wonderful woman named Dawn.

Dawn had seemed amazingly strong and opinionated and left of center.  Very similar to how my teenage years were laying out to hate 1

Dawn was gay.  She had been the first gay person to my knowledge…that I had met.  She and her partner had sung like angels every Sunday and practiced ’til the John Denver tunes wore out every Thursday night.

Dawn and her partner, Mary Ann, seemed so content.  So stretched out in their ‘God’s love’…I did not question why they were two women in basking in admiration for each other.  I only knew that for the first time ever…IT would be okay!  That being different didn’t matter.  That love conquers all.

I know now that naivety is a precious gift wasted on the hate 2

Dawn went missing not long into our new friendship.  She just left.  No note.  No good-bye.  No, we’ll play a raunchy game of Scrabble next Saturday!

Not much would be said after Dawn’s disappearance.  No one looked for her.  Mary Ann, secretly, wept for her.  Yet, outwardly, it had been as though, Dawn, were a figment of my imagination.

Many years later, I happened to cross paths with Mary Ann.  For the first time in twenty some odd years, I had the courage to ask about Dawn.

Her reply had been a simple one:

Dawn was a troubled soul.  And, at the time, it was best for me to act as though… I had just lost a ‘good friend’.

I am a backseat driver from America
They drive on the left on falls road
The man at the wheel’s name is Shamus
We pass a child on the corner he knows

And Shamus says, “Now what chance has that kid got?”
And I say from the back, “I don’t know”
He says, “There’s barbed wire at all these exits
And there ain’t no place in Belfast for that kid to go”

It’s a hard life, it’s a hard life
It’s a very hard life
It’s a hard life wherever you go
If we poison our children with hatred
Then, the hard life is all that they’ll know
And there ain’t no place in Belfast for that kid to go

A cafeteria line in Chicago
The fat man in front of megay hate
Is calling black people trash to his children
And he’s the only trash here I see

And I’m thinking this man wears a white hood
In the night when the children should sleep
But, they’ll slip to their window and they’ll see him
And they’ll think that white hood’s all they need

It’s a hard life, it’s a hard life
It’s a very hard life
It’s a hard life wherever you go
If we poison our children with hatred
Then, the hard life is all that they’ll know
And there ain’t no place in Chicago for those kids to go

I was a child in the sixties
Dreams could be held through TV
With Disney and Cronkite and martin Luther
And, I believed, I believed, I believed

Now, I am the backstreet driver from America
I am not at the wheel of control
I am guilty, I am war, I am the root of all evil
Lord, I can’t drive on the left side of the road

It’s a hard life, it’s a hard life
It’s a very hard life
It’s a hard life wherever you go
If we poison our children with hatred
Then, the hard life is all that they’ll know
And there ain’t no place in this world for these kids to go

Read more: Nanci Griffith – It’s A Hard Life Wherever You Go Lyrics | MetroLyrics