So moved,
How does it happen?

One telling the story of abuse,
The other waxing poetic,
Of life with a story teller’s magic.

Moving me to tears.

It’s honesty or authenticity,
No, both,
Reaching in with surgical precision
And cutting the emotional scars I’ve carefully engineered.

These guys,
Bringing their pain to the surface,

Raw brilliance,
Their pain, a wisdom massaging a lack of confidence
That oozes from me in tears and sniffles,
Hushed by manliness and thoughts so deeply ingrained.

Yet, they have let go,
Finding freedom in expression forged in understanding their truth,

A truth, mine, the one
I want to understand,
One that has been elusive,
One that resides under layers of doubt and uncertainty.

They bring the waste out
Leaving me wasted in my own rubbish

For it’s their ability to be men
That has me wondering what I’ve always been,
Who I’ve been playing,
Why so many roles of pretending.

It’s as if they found out
Being themselves is greatness, easier

So moved,
A way of living,
Unfettered by the trappings of shoulds,
Untethered to the ropes of limitations.

So moved,
How does it happen?



Family focus?
Liar, liar, tongue on fire
Put up and shut up
Conjoin your money and mouth
Put families up here.






Photo Credit: By Martin Dürrschnabel, de:Benutzer:Martin-D1, user:Martin-D [CC BY-SA 2.5 (, from Wikimedia Commons

“It seemed to exist only to maintain itself.” Joan Didion

Thanks, Netflix, for destroying Saturday night.
My not so well-read self
Has been introduced to a lifeline of writing
That has brought tears flowing
For some reason, I can’t yet understand.

I need to move to LA or maybe back to NY
To figure out the machinations that create routine
Or go as her beloved Doors, breaking through whatever,
Whatever it is on the other side
Of wherever it is we go when
These new ideas get us scribbling ideas
About the excitement of novelty or
The frustration of dealing with reality
Or the drip on the forehead of boredom.

Thanks, Netflix, for raising my Saturday night.
My quantifiable style of creating
Has been exposed to a straight jacket of writing
That can squeeze out every bit of reflective honesty that
For some reason, I haven’t been able to tackle.

I need to turn in or maybe get out
To live the exquisite experiences that allow variety
Or go as her beloved Doors, living in the deep and wide
Wherever that takes us when
Fresh gobbles up stale
Leaving cupboards bare and naked
With renewed spirits
Basking in the warmth of an autumn day.

Get on with it.

Profoundly dangerous narratives
Make life difficult
Since owning our stories takes stamina

The negativity we think so much of
Makes our happiness extremely insolent
Through profoundly dangerous narratives

To find a way to make feelings comparative
Is the track that is most important
Since owning our stories takes stamina

Writing down the story might be a curative
To help sort through the torrent
Of profoundly dangerous narratives

Understanding failure is imperative
For bringing positive purpose to the scant
Since owning our stories takes stamina

Breaking the stories down is restorative
Kill that voice of “can’t”
Because profoundly dangerous narratives
We keep owning are stories taking our stamina

There is humor
In the bold face lie.
You know the ones,
When the representation of character
Is dripping an entitled aura of authority.

Those kind of lies
Make me laugh.

Of course a lie to one
May really be a truth to another,
Since different faces
Can have different perspectives
Of the reality of a legacy.

Still, though,
I laugh.

Because the honesty of a lie
Is not in what the tale tells,
But it’s more about the reputation of the speaker,
Who in spouting the misrepresentations
Shows their character to be mere folly.

Still laughing…

Remember the Garment District fire
Where people perished
Because of idiots
And their asinine management skills

Money should never come before people
Neither children nor adults
Should come before each other
Especially where safety is concerned
As all deserve proper protection

Be smart, man

And kids, don’t lie.