“What an abyss of uncertainty, whenever the mind feels overtaken by itself, when it, the seeker, is at the same time the dark region through which it must go seeking.” – Marcel Proust

Here then,

tired wanderer,

lay down

your mortal coils

and respire freely

into the giving dark.


if the torchlight

you carry inside


should go out,

or not feel like enough,

close your eyes

and become the fire

by which you forge ahead,

its brilliance

the alchemical kin

to your truest self

and origins.

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Odysseus and You

“This transformation is what all artists seek: to become like mythic heroes—Prometheus, Achilles, Odysseus, Aclestis, Athena—so that we mortals can see our fates reflected in their journeys as we do in the journeys described in ancient myths.” – Erica Jong

Givne to due course,

a most marvelous voyage–

Lore of attraction.

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Pedestrian in a Far Off Land

“Realism is a bad word. In a sense everything is realistic. I see no line between the imaginary and the real.” – Federico Fellini

It was a rainy day.

The weather prophets

called for a storm

and boy

were they ever right.

The pelting assault

of the raindrops

on your umbrella’s nylon

works like a spell

in bringing you back

to a childhood

not yours

but some other remote

and unspecified childhood

that took place

in a faraway land

where it rained a lot.

Nostalgia pierces your heart

and, in a haze,

you step off the curb

and begin plunging downward

into a yawning abyss

as you manage to turn your head

just enough

to see the cliff’s edge

off which you just stepped.

Heart in your mouth,

your umbrella blows inside out

as you plunge

and plunge

and wonder

how many times

the city curbside

will have to turn into a cliff’s edge

off which you fall

before you finally remember

to adjust your perspective

to honor your flights of fancy

and divine the fool

you were always meant to be

come rain

or come shine.

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The Never-Ending Story

We are, rest assured,

eternity localized.


being the metaphor

and axis

upon which a real life

is imagined

and inspired

by a dream story.

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“Myths, so to say, are public dreams; dreams are private myths.” – Joseph Campbell

The correspondence

between public and private

alternated choirs.

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Practice Run

To get ready, daily,

for the stories inside,

the voices,

yet never losing sight

of the fact

that they are


skating on waves,

and to hold on

would be like

trying to clutch

and contain


between your fingers–

in other words,


in good faith

that practice makes practice,

and your heart is the raging epic

by which all other stories

pale in comparison.

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 “The lamp in the window is the house’s eye and, in the kingdom of the imagination, it is never lighted out-of-doors, but is enclosed light, which can only filter to the outside.”–Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

The young girl


not only

the one lighted window

in her dollhouse,

but also that its front door

was half-opened.

When she peered

through the glass

of the window

and saw a dark-haired doll,

one she had never seen before,

dancing with the porcelain figure

who was meant to represent her father,

the girl almost screamed

but held it in,

that is until

she reached her bedroom door

and found that the doorknob

was too high to reach.

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“You know of course that slowness is the only illumination I’ve ever had.” — Peter Handke, The Afternoon of a Writer

A writer,

fastening his worth

to the tempo of grass,

to the yellow leaves

separating their grief

from their longing–

immeasurable farewells

and hellos

so slow

to burn.

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“Once it had been the other way around: one summer, while daydreaming a winter story, he had reached into the tall grass  for a snowball, wanting to throw it playfully at the cat.” — Peter Handke, The Afternoon of a Writer

In those chanced

moments of supple reverie,

when the seasons blend

and merge

in hybrid fluency,

and you find

the fugitive words

dancing from your pen

to annoint a page

your confidante

and vouchsafe,

then, and only then,

the ceremony

of a slow reckoning

toward most treasured intimacy.

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What Was It You Said?

“Distraction is the only thing that consoles us for our miseries and yet it is, itself, the greatest of our miseries.” — Blaise Pascal

Oh, distraction,

you paradoxical bastard–

Sky laughs, stays open.

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