Saturday, June 19, 2010

A Wedding Letter

When I think of the years we’ve known eachother, I realize it doesn’t seem like that long. I can bring to mind several friends I had growing up that I consider “childhood friends,” but you are not in that category; you surpass it. While others came and went, flowered and fell, we have always been able to reconnect, and by that I consider you a life long friend. And to be here for this day brings me great joy for you.
Looking back on the times sitting in Northland’s stackable chairs on Saturday nights, taking French lessons at the kitchen table, making sand castles with PVC pipes and coffee cans, I saw you searching for your place and your passion. Your eyes and sight were beyond your age. While the people around you lived for and by various shallow truths and blind longings, you could not join them because you sought something greater.
In finding a voice, and voicing a song, the melody lead you to Illinois, and by divine fate, to him. With him your passion you found, and your song you named. I wish I could have been there for you in those days before but my eyes had things yet to see, and other journeys to take, and while I was just as blind as the rest, I see enough now to know that you have found your place, and today you sign the deed to build a home on it, and what a grad home it will be:
Made of love, grace, and vintage things,
By hands that work for greater deeds,
Dealing hope out for all in need.
In the etiquette of Emily Gilmore, I give you the best of wishes, and to Michael, Congratualations.
Ton ami toujours,

Past Facts for a Future without the Present

Spring 2009

Is it fair to admit a truth

that would break a promise?

A bond set on course

but not yet moored.

Has this truth come too late

or just in time?

Is it unjust to the presence of the past

or to the present oversea investments?

Which is greater?

Which has priority in the continuum in time?

Can the fact wait



Is it misunderstood?

Is it worth saving myself from its crushing weight,

A life of regret and unrequiting longing,

If it perhaps becomes theirs with a burden multiplied of unknowable density,

Altogether different structures of lattice crystal.

And in the light I carry for such a one

would that lattice break?

In destroying one furture would another be gained

Or would both be forever tainted?

The final question must be

Of this light’s strength and length and origins.

If it is great and frequent and pure,

It must be shown,

For either to torch or to pyre,

Otherwise the light will consume itself

And its lighter in combustion that leaves embers burning;

Faded and isolated in space and time

To taint all other flames.

The only other possibility is that it would dwindle to a whisper

Of smoke giving way to darkness

That lacks resources and energy to strike

Anew a future.

My love is dead, refused, missed, or misplaced.

But love endures

Whether its around or in my hands

Or in the hands of others.

What would I really have to offer

But a soul tossed about by pressure




And in the tortuosity lose

The fact and the love

Left in years apart

And pieces of brokenness

For her and her present tense.

Time enough

To wait

To dwindle the flame,

And twiddle another branch

Now greening.

Curse Our Age!

Fall 2008

An Age where we have no families

Far-off and distant relatives and movie stars galore;

No communities

Limitless urban sprawl and heights;

No tradition

I make my own definition;

No soul

They told me to so I did it;

No ethics

I wanted it so I took it;

No direction

I can do whatever I want in my life;

No passion

I only feel for utility;

No connection

I am separate and autonomous from all;

No future

The present for whatever it costs without a thought to the past;

Never a question, yet always an answer,

Opinions abound in the troth.

If society teaches,

then we eat the peaches,

and then we're all in the same broth.

Monday, June 7, 2010


April 23rd, 2010

You see the scene.

The four, cornered lights with silks.

The white tape in square with form-bolstering cords;

The true yet transient perimeter, 40x40ft.

A wooden table,

Twin chairs to match

In center stage,

Square within square,

The remnant of a tree

Growing from green slate,

A reflection of grass.

An artist

—the artist—

at an end,

Participant placed to the compliment,

all to have between them

a beginning.

To what?





Here, there,


Come again.


See her.

She is striking in posture and face.

A nose to rival stereotyped witches.

She offers what so many wish of celebrities;

A chance to sit with them,

Be near them,

And most outstanding,

To have their complete attention.

Most unusually and improbable of all,

You have their eyes through hers.

Will her attention falter?

Does mine?

In my time waiting

will she stand and leave before I do,

Before I have a chance?

What is she offering?

Will she change from these encounters?

Will she change me?

Will my stare change her?

Will the years of focused attention

on the work of my hands change me?

Why am I here?

Why do I want to sit with her?

She prepares herself.

Shoulders down head moved slightly

To settle the kink to the lower right.

Eyes closed to revive moisture,

Light re-envigored by darkness of closed lid,


Arms lowered,

Relieving shoulders.

A new person approaches,



The artist takes her time

She is not a microwave.
This is not fast food.

This is real.

This is personal,



She tells any who wants a burger and fries

To look elsewhere

in her slowly returning posture.

In the awakening

She is a phoenix;

Anew like the first glance,

First person,

First time

—A virginity Madonna can’t touch.

Vitality lasting person after person,

Day after day,

Two months to follow the first.

You can’t just be a spectator.
You want to participate,

Want to experience,

Want to know,

With a touch of being seen,


Talked about.

One person wants two minuets.

One as long as he can stand it.

One as long as he can sit.

Another but a breath.

One man staid an hour and a half,

And continues to sit and stare

From across the room at the unfolding,

The people,

The scene.

He either gained something here

Or lost

Where he is left incomplete

And hoping

To gain

A little more

From watching her back, face, and hands.

So is this a test for us or for her?

Hands puffed from blood.

Eyes also shot bloody.

Face is grease and sweat from the four, 1K lights.

She stands the risk of malnourishment,


Blood clots in her legs from prolonged sitting.

A challenge of patience,




Do I want to wait half an hour,

One hour?


Will I forgo the artist’s artwork for the artist herself?

What is an artist without her art?

She makes us a piece of her own art

By our own willingness,

Art arising mentally to those involved,

those watching.

Physically and emotionally on human palletes

The brushs of her eyelashes paint

With the color of her eyes

And the texture of her face’s age

By the hold of her body’s sacrifices

To the strokes of the compliment

And to the inspiration of the interaction.