Opportunity Cost

For a simple exchange, my good sir, you may buy,
A slick, polished future, with views from on high.
A seat in a chair so soft and so right,
When you get there you’ll never remember the fight.
Or the things that you loved that you missed on your way,
Up this hill where on top is that big, bright “Some Day.”

You’ve made a fine choice my discerning, wise friend,
For a much grander future awaits you in the end.
All I need from you now, to make best come to be,
Is to pay for your dreams with a low one-time fee.
It’s all waiting for you, so act now! Don’t delay!
Success can be yours!
…The price is today.


Portraits Age in Reverse

Here, explanation offered:
I, as memory, is only time.
Time only is memory.
As I offered explanation here.


Swing Set

The joy of creation,
can only be known,
against a backdrop of sedation.

The pains of the artist,
with too much to say,
are dulled through the mind’s masturbation.

* * *

The seasons turn swiftly,
seeds planted… some grow,
while others rot trapped in hard clay.

The life lived tomorrow,
so seductive and bright,
forever outrunning today.

* * *

Serpant selves shedding skins,
twice born in a day,
thin shells and old eyes never missed.

Once catching a glimpse,
of a muse waxing high,
pulling with it the tides of our bliss.



He fathered them all,
Their blushing mother nursed them,
Balanced them in the gentle sway of her delicate fabric.
As children they loved their Mother,
In awe of the Father that provided all.
From a shared cradle they emerged,
Brothers and sisters.

From above, their Father watched their wanderings.
Illuminating their world with light and life,
As He made His way across the sky.
In four directions His children spread,
Chasing horizons over great distances.
Like seeds on a wind.

The Children of the East, welcomed their Father each day.
The Children of the South, best knew their Father’s warmth.
The Children of the West, danced to their Father’s music.
The Children of the North, grew distant from their Father.
Discovering in the shadows of their Father’s absence,
The cold side of a lonely Mother.

Building walls they turned inward,
Growing pale in their solitude.
Nearsighted through honed dexterity,
Pride swelling with the power of creation.
Linguistic palaces ascended to heaven,
Their father and mother subjugated by name.

They charted the distant stars.
They mapped the earth’s contours.
They mastered inferior races.
They worshiped themselves.
Fair skin easily seared,
By a father made sun.


The Buffalo Hills

Full moon rising over the wasteland,
Dry hills harbor dry souls.
Shriveling as bitter grapes,
Tangled vines planted and numbered.
Faces glimpsed but not seen.
In spaces measured by yards,
Untrodden lawns veil chasms.
Grass and rock great waters,
Lapping at shallow coral coasts.
A thousand private islands.
Hidden hearts beating alone,
Full moon setting on shared dreams.

The Zombie Apocalypse (A Diary)

The following diary pages were recovered by physical anthropologists in North America and stand as one of the many shocking historical documents now-recoverd that paint our overall portrait  of the momentous events of the early 21st century.

The Peasant King and the Tree of Life

The king rose early. His queen lay still-bound in silk, sleeping soundly atop the toil of faceless millions. Beautiful and delicate, great panes of glass stood as emissary to the cool spring morning; turning away the crisp, earth-laiden air while permitting a tepid flood of pale light to illuminate the intricate fineries of a life possessed.

Amassed over a lifetime of ardently honed discrimination, the king’s estate stood as testament to his worth and individuality. Conditioned since infancy to diligently select or reject from life’s abundant diversity, his sharp eyes scrutinized all they surveyed. Moved to possess beauty, they disregarded any shades of life whose tones did not gratify.

The king’s beautiful world was balanced atop the panicle of a human mountain whose base were the innumerable souls required to elevate Man to such dizzying heights. Well practiced as he was, he discarded such odious musings. He had not chosen this, thus he was absolved.

The king bathed in rose-scented water, dressed in beautifully tailored cloth and slipped soft feet into polished leather.  He emerged from his castle, beholding the realm over which he was master. On either side, from castles of their own, the neighboring kings emerged.

The hollow taste of contempt quickly coated in the dull sheen of habitual friendliness, each king honored the next with a quick nod. A clipped wave. Each boarded their own luxurious vessel and eased it onto the paved vine that connected their kingdoms with millions of identical others.

From deep, unexamined places spun the adage “All men are free. All men are equal.” Within each sovereign were these words seared. Working endlessly in the building and keep of their kingdoms, they asked not by whom.

The King rose as he willed. His Queen, ever-wakeful, hummed with delicate precision the melody of ten billion feet marching in unison. Shrouded as he was by her intricate beauty, The King’s unseen face bore the sly smirk of a magician. While Great Kings of Old bound their subjects in irons, he alone saw the delicate gold chains that everywhere bound her.

On a far away hill, an apple tree rose from the fertile humus of perpetual sacrifice. Its roots wound deep into ancient soil, millions of leaves twisting in the sun before perishing on the heap below.

How sweet the fruit.

How glorious the seeds.

Poem for a Christian Friend

On our knees we pray to heaven above,
As we fear the hell that’s below.
With the earth in between, to us then it seems,
That it’s here where these poles ebb and flow.

Our Father: he dwells in Heaven most high.
We his Children: hence fallen by birth.
From exile we yearn for salvation-bestowed,
As we gaze up to Heaven from Earth.

But what does it mean when that sight is beheld:
Planet Earth amidst infinite space?
Those glorious heavens we’ve seen overhead,
Aren’t different, appart-from this place.

Earth too is in Heaven, as the sun and the stars,
A space trillions of galaxies vast.
So if fallen we are, where from did we depart?
To what ground can the mind not trespass?

Where then be that Hell, or the angels and God,
If not here? And then what need to rue?
For if all Creation is the Creator himself:
In the Creation, The Creator, is You.


The Institute for the Decidedly Not-Funny (Interview)


My guest today is Hillary Cachinnate, who has been heading the Institute for the Decidedly Not-Funny (or “IDNF”), for the last quarter-century. The science of what is, and what is decidedly-not funny is complex, its history fascinating, and its ramifications vast. The following is an excerpt from an interview I had with Ms. Cachinnate in the winter of ‘Ot-six, as we toured a portion of the institute, which is situated on 150 forested acres in Hobbcleff, VT.

Continue reading The Institute for the Decidedly Not-Funny (Interview)

The Flow

Two rivers converged,
Their contents combined.
Giving birth to a swirl of life.
From chaos came order,
from void arose form.
A new being danced into the light.

It started so small,
It could barely be seen.
Surroundings and self intertwined.
But the pattern grew larger,
A whirlpool formed.
And with that was its selfhood defined.

As water flowed through,
It twisted in bliss.
Its soul was the cool summer rains.
But its vigor diminished,
As autumn approached.
And the cyclone’s source waters soon waned.

Then the whirlpool said:
“What’s it like to be dead?”
But the water which asked this had gone.
As new water flowed in,
It asked yet again.
But it realized the question was wrong.

“If I’m always changing,
My life but a flow,
How can there be hope that I’ll last?
“When the self that I was,
While pondering death,
In this moment, already has passed?”

As its channels dried up,
It felt itself fade.
Going back into that which it came.
Without fear. Without sorrow.
As it was born again.
Resurrected with each spring’s new rain.