everything is not visible


i am a sculptor chipping away

at my marble. the way of my

chisel penetrates the stone of

a self-portrait. every stroke is

premeditated murder. i am

donatello’s revealing bronze

david. an innocent and virtuous

youth, fixed on the shivering head

of the philistine. i wear nothing but

my boots and a hat with laurel

leaves. majestically naked.  my

silhouette will never hide from a

sunrise or run from the rain. there

are no flaws. there is no evil. the

dust of my labor is abducted by

the wind. scattered in moonlight,

pure and sweet. my independent

fancy spills out from an extraordinary

heart. it cannot be bridled or spirit

torn. i have climbed from a hole a

thousand miles deep. i will crawl

on cobblestone, a pathway to the

gate. beyond where poverty is not

suffering, nor solitude a journey. i

live deliberately without dire need.

desperation is the folly of a doleful

soul. tomorrow is just another day.



it’s easier to fall into a

well than to climb out.

the deeper the well,

the darker it is. oxygen

is thin, fantasy fills the

brain fed by empty veins,

dry as the well itself.

a limbless reptile without

eyelids  zigzags between

the toes. the perfume of

forbidden fruit blossoms

between the thighs. this

hole where devils dance

with neglect and sorrow

enchantment breathes.

where tongues are crippled

and wisdom is wretched.

from here the language of

the wind melts a cold heart.

i find here what is greater

than my faith and my hope.


five days to heaven, and a

hundred miles to go. the

trumpeter blows good will.

discord he pulls from a bag

of wind. he is the seventh

angel with gentle intimacy.

he leads the way through

immortal sunrises, and

habitual sunsets. this stark

messenger serenades with

thunderbirds and coverts

with blue jays. saint francis

of assisi made a perfect

sacrifice. art inside of birth,

birth inside of art. he executed

secular gift giving. puritans

lynched mince pie. adam and eve,

noah, and the twelve sons of jacob

were there. so too ladies and

gentlemen, the bourgeois, pigs, and

sheep, ducks, dogs and cats, the

typical gypsy telling the future.

only from within the heart

can the baby jesus be stolen

from the manger.