Snowshoes in the Sand

If my reflection came easily, it would be built upon mirrored waters.

Bathed in twilight’s meandering sun.

Riding in on a high horse.

Several hands high.

Looking back would be nothing but…

an unconditional, good-bye.

The miles ahead?

An easily read map with routes I could choose or deny.

Yet, contemplation, a plethora of shine and showers, not so simple to define.

Its inventory, a snowshoe in the sand.

Too basic to understand.

Repugnant, regurgitated, bliss.

Straight lines to a closed fist.

The resolution?

A well-rounded, linear, first kiss.


What to Castrate?

If the phrase,

‘I am disappointed in you!’

Could be castrated.

I would hang it upon a wall.

Hung high above the impediments of swollen doors.

Hung high in a disorderly hall

Then, perhaps, an inscription of my own wants…five feet tall.

‘Alas, so am I!’

In equality,  the tattered room could be made small.

But the years have fled.

Such as, a prisoner who has committed no crime.

And, I have grown wise enough to know…

Such images are not part of my grand design.

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Just a Word


A sincere, well toned bicep.

The letters jumping out like a scare tactic.

‘Just a word…’

A visual of sensual static.

How diverse my thoughts can be…

When awakened from my migrant sleep.

Words…Have created an obsession ever since,

I believed they were items…

Never truly conceived.

Akin to a pig in a blanket of her own mess.

I would wrap myself up in pictures to relieve a writer’s stress.

Soon enough, my ego led to slaughter.

It is not the language that betrays me.

But the pleasing taste of indifference to conformity.

Wall of Self Acceptance

If I just lay here…

Will the ache forget me?

Can I harness health and imagine another world?

Mirrored Orb…

When can I see my brow as something…

not haggard or furled?

The Pimple of Self-Pity


Often, as those of artistic mind can; I find myself wallowing.  Delving deep into…I’m old, I wish I were young and innocent.  My arms are too long!  They drag on the ground.  I have my grandmother’s feet…They belong on a dinosaur in a museum!

Blah, blah, blah.

Fortunate for me!  I am sober, sarcastic and have an over abundance of written examples on… Just how deadly self-pity can be!’


“All depression has its roots in self-pity, and all self-pity is rooted in people taking themselves too seriously.!

The key word here is roots,” Maestra had countered. “The roots of depression. For most people, self-awareness and self-pity blossom simultaneously in early adolescence. It’s about that time that we start viewing the world as something other than a whoop-de-doo playground, we start to experience personally how threatening it can e, how cruel and unjust. At the very moment when we become, for the first time, both introspective and socially conscientious, we receive the bad news that the world, by and large, doesn’t give a rat’s ass. Even an old tomato like me can recall how painful, scary, and disillusioning that realization was. So, there’s a tendency, then, to slip into rage and self-pity, which if indulged, can fester into bouts of depression.”

“Yeah but Maestra – ”

“Don’t interrupt. Now, unless someone stronger and wiser – a friend, a parent, a novelist, filmmaker, teacher, or musician – can josh us out of it, can elevate us and show us how petty and pompous and monumentally useless it is to take ourselves so seriously, then depression can become a habit, which, in tern, can produce a neurological imprint. Are you with me? Gradually, our brain chemistry becomes conditioned to react to negative stimuli in a particular, predictable way. One thing’ll go wrong and it’ll automatically switch on its blender and mix us that black cocktail, the ol’ doomsday daiquiri, and before we know it, we’re soused to the gills from the inside out. Once depression has become electrochemically integrated, it can be extremely difficult to philosophically or psychologically override it; by then it’s playing by physical rules, a whole different ball game. That’s why Switters my dearest, every time you’ve shown signs of feeling sorry for yourself, I’ve played my blues records really loud or read to you from The Horse’s Mouth. And that’s why when you’ve exhibited the slightest tendency toward self-importance, I’ve reminded you that you and me – you and I: excuse me – may be every bit as important as the President or the pope or the biggest prime-time icon in Hollywood, but none of us is much more than a pimple on the ass-end of creation, so let’s not get carried away with ourselves. Preventive medicine, boy. It’s preventive medicine.”

“But what about self-esteem?”

“Heh! Self-esteem is for sissies. Accept that you’re a pimple and try to keep a lively sense of humor about it. That way lies grace – and maybe even glory.”

Tom Robbins – Fierce Invalids Home for Hot Climates