Home Is Where The Airplanes Land
The corner I am painted into is
the corner I have chosen to paint myself into
The Loneliness and isolation and the repossession of
physical cognitive and emotional space takes skill
talent and unquantifiable focused labor

I cannot tell (or decide) if it is
The Loneliness that propels me toward
thresholds of success or if it is
The Loneliness that prevents me from
finally attaining all the world’s treasures

I am however probably not The Ideal Person nor
The Ideal Vessel to possess such poignant knowledge
The intimacy and the proximity disguises and distorts
both the desire for and the rejection of
any and all forms of adulation

Firstly and foremostly relevance and allegiance
to self and soul is the ultimate reflection to
glare back from our darkest funhouse mirrors
The entirety of human output past and future is
the priceless and devoid artifacts of The Loneliness

Home For The Past Thirteen Years & Home For The Next Six Years



A Muse My Self
You can never plan for success
Meaning is assumed but not assured

The pursuit of a way to justify
all the effort and time and dedication

There are skills to use and
There are skills to abuse

Reiterations of reiterations
Recursions of recursions

Smaller is freer and
poorer is richer

I am safe and sound (with me) inside
an elite tactical squad of one

Your heroes will always disappoint you
Someone has to be thrown into the volcanoes

Consistent with an ethos and vision
I only have to be relevant to myself


Everything Is Random
This was supposed to be the career-making breakout year
but the hurdles multiplied and the rebels revolted

They said ‘do what you know’ but that turned out to be
so tired, boring, and mostly just already done already

Being comfortable in my very own skin is
most likely much more work than ever it was leisure

Loyalty is all I ever had to offer but
I did not make the rules, oh wait, I did make all of the rules

Nothing can ever go back to the way it was
Time is a runaway non-stop flight on a one-way street forward

Like vague figures in the fog or doppler-shifted subwoofer are
desire, moral order, and the certainty of any future

We create(d) the literal under the figurative as an improper fraction
The shapes and the sounds are all wholly manufactured

The world has been ‘going to hell’ since hell was invented such that
all potential and possibility and ideals are temporary and replaceable

Unless we cut to chases and shear the protective layers
science and magic and hope and faith are all the same prison


I Play The Kazoo
I play the kazoo in the marching band // check me out when you come out to the parade grounds to watch me play some buzzy tunes in step with all my peoples.

I play the kazoo for the heroes of the past and the champions for the future // we see through all the knots and avoid all the attractive whirlpools as one.

I play the kazoo and drink all the tea and eat all the almonds and stop at all the stop signs and pay all the taxes // despite all the critiques and the snark I am still a believer.

I play the kazoo for justice, fairness, equality, the children, the blacks, the women, my friends and family, and this dying planet // everything I’ve done and everything I do is for all of you.

I play the kazoo because I really want to play the kazoo because I’ve always played the kazoo and because I will continue to play the kazoo because I am the player of the kazoo.