The human 

comes through, 

if you dig 

into your tissue. 

We are deeply flawed,

and it is reveled, 

when you cut

into your own


I eat my own,

from the tips of my fingers,

and I think of my soul….

How much 

more different

am I 

than a god?


The lights

I took my two-year old son
for a drive
in the neighborhood
to look at the Christmas lights.
As the radio played
the standards
he gleefully called out
each character
he recognized.
I felt joy
tinged with a feeling
I am reluctant
to call
As an adult
I have chosen the title
to mark my place
in the arc
of belief.
I have arrived here
after a long journey
through rebellion
and atheism.
What will his journey be?
I find Christianity fascinating
as one does any history
without its strings
Must I submit him
to Sunday lectures
and the fear of the afterlife
to teach him
the reason for the glory
embeded in
Adeste Fidelis?
Does my softening reflect
some ritualistic
and predictable failing
that befalls all upon whom culture
inevitably places her crown
of yielding?
I do not wish
to spend Sundays
listening to the tired intonations
of those whose key book
has seen more revisions
than a dictionary.
I cannot, however, deny
the power of human belief
that leads to such endeavors
in the first place.
Must I submit this child
to these practices
to give him the fuel
to know when to rebel?
but if not
there is always the covenant
of grandma
and grandpa…
that’s how it worked out
for me….

Jot, the deity.

I will write myself notes

that I know

I will never need…

the act

of having written

is all that I need.

My mind

will recall

not the original need

but merely

the note….

It is all the same;

I will remember.

I want to write,

“I am God:


and infinite;

a world within myself.

I am unyielding,

and without fault.”


I hope,

I will recall,

without needing

to remember.

It is a folly…

I have written too many notes

that speak

to the opposite,

and have heard

too many heckles

to counter it.

I’m good, thanks

Took too long to get over her

to let any of this affect me.

Flesh, and romance,

bills and sorrow…

could never come to grips

with the discretion she used,

handling the death of the relationship.



I fucking hoped and waited,

so no now I’m better…

not bitter…

God-damn it…

I’d welcome bitter,

I deserve to be bitter….


…I’m good when I’m bitter…

I’m the god of bitter…

mortal, but still….



You’ve got a man…

I don’t care.

You’re a good looking one,


prettier when spoken too

than gazed at.

Let me see that “promise-ring”

come off your finger

just a second

and I’ll strike.

Go on, tell your little man that…

I’m a god,

you must know this:

It’s you who rise here each day

like a sun rising on my day.


you’ve got a man?