it is here that i haven’t been to

for around three years

in that of writing something worthwhile.

in between my last poem

and coming here to write,

i bought books of poetry, novels and autobiographies,

and did lots of reading.

lately, I’ve been reading Jack Kerouac’s selected letters

to find some juice

to come through these veins.

pulling away from writing sometimes happens,

and one begins to wonder if it can be found again.

maybe pretending to write a letter

to my muse would stir something up.

i’m not sure if i am finding it,

but giving it a whirl surely makes me feel different

than i have in quite some time.

but one thing i can bank on,

is that i have old poems

to read at the readings

i have just started to go to

in the past couple of weeks.

so maybe this poem

can kickstart me once again

into a small miracle

upon this page.

garden of souls

where spirits gather

in voices that carry.

eternal

everlasting.

suitors of a calling

is the word that comes alive.

like a preacher

leaving seeds of discovery.

cultivators of the parable

brings the crop to maturity

thus –

our resting place.

his work appeared
before me that day
after years of paranoid dialogue.
today he spoke
about the voices
that used to infiltrate
the corridors of his mind.
i told him,
“your confident voice
is the result
of your effort
that you have put forth
in your fight
to eradicate your soul
from the deceiving
commands that haunted you.
it’s not easy
for many of those
that have attempted these steps
like you have.”
his eyes filled
with utmost joy
and told me,
“without you taking
up the cause
of this schizophrenia behavior,
this voice wouldn’t be
where it is today.”

in my paycheck, there’s a small U.S. flag.

you have to peel the back off slowly,

place the flag precisely

on the window of your car or home.

i haven’t.

i hold it in the right pocket

of my heavy flannel

i wear to work everyday.

no one knows it is near my heart.

does it matter how i show my colors?

you are anonymous as always

and effervescent

from the rays

brought about by your light.

the tone

in an atmosphere of creation.

how did this come to be?

my heart is free,

and my spirit spread throughout –

there is no substitute.

just passing through,

leaves something behind

omnipotent,

when thrown into the wind

as its resting place.

it gets no better!

if this poem stands out –

a choice of inner thought

can rule in a circle

relentlessly devouring the word.

impact is every thing

to the poet,

leaving a line to feast on.

the preparation is about the taste

it leaves upon your palette,

and satisfies until it reaches the soul

where i left an influence.

so quiet

at times –

the only way

to be heard

is through observation.

then the pen

comes into play

and becomes the trademark.

the darkness of my tiny pupils

focus exquisitely with manic-depression

and how pain becomes art.

i lay in slight curl

facing the wall upon the bed

in a dark stare

with wanting death

as a nurse walks in.

the slow roll on my back

feels like the vultures

to peck away at me.

i stick out my right arm –

the pinch of pain

that i feel from the I.V into my vein

is linked in my battle to be sane.

only the tiny droplets

resulting from this illness

keep dripping one by one

as i continue to look on.

repost poetry reading

it is the belief

that reclusion can be a good thing,

which can fuse

a highly original experience.

in the reflective,

little did i know,

i was looking outward.

inwardly strides toward better times.

to the spirit of the gods,

in patience a masterful fate,

to be thankful for everything

in the strongly nourished