prose

Write, but don’t

Don’t be a writer,

don’t hobble yourself.

Instead,

be a doer.

Make things happen.

Doing is where

the rubber

meets

the road.

Doers make the structures

where writers

craft

their reality.

Writers inspire,

but…

write while doing…

something.

Words have no value

if they carry

no weight.

Make weight,

write with a purpose

to challenge,

to contradict,

to insult

(if need-be).

Just

write.

Et tu, deja?

To know the future

because I already experienced it,

as a memory.

A thought that came to me

as a settled fact,

but pertains to things

that haven’t happened.

I want so badly

for this to be true.

To imagine

that some sort of release

from this

day-to-day drudgery exists

and is already settled fact

thrills me.

A piercing light into this dark room…

but I don’t want to look up

and see

the silhouette

and shadow

of the jailer

passing over the grate.

Old elf

So,

I’m holding onto Santa,

all 13 inches

of his animatronic self,

and I realize

i have no connection

with him….

When,

I implore,

did I stop believing?

(I

Do

Not

Know.)

Santa, in a way, is like religion:

Nobody believes, anymore…

But everyone functions

as though we do……

It may be a fallacy,

but,

does it function

for better,

or worse?

Merry Christmas.

Christmas, my boy.

I look at the face

of my six-year old son

and I’m overcome

by the saddest dichotomy…

I will not say

exactly what…

but the notion

that so much joy

and potential despair

lie within one tiny soul

drives me deep into melancholy;

safe passage,

I ask,

of the fates

when these thoughts mount

like so many thieves

looking to rob me

of my foundation.

I am not a productive soul,

but this beautiful boy

is my masterwork,

and i cannot contemplate

any path forward

wherein he does not

exceed me.