Outside, out there… out.

Fake it…

just fake it

and keep faking.

Every day becomes

a charade.

Let’s pretend that

we are normal.

Lets pretend that

we do the “typical ” things.

This has been

the last 47 years

of my time

in this social – system.

While the rest of humanity

gets to enjoy the basics

of their day

(as an expression

of their true person)

we must pretend to be normal.

We must pretend to react

to the

day-to-day events

as if they are somehow significant.

When we get home,

when we shut out

the rest of the world,

we take a deep breath,


and try to figure out

who we really are….

It is a level of exhaustion

most will never




I watch the people

in the park

(as my son plays) 

and my judgements

flow freely 

and quickly. 

I am aware

of my many faults, 

all of which, 

I carry in full view

into this public space….


I still judge these strangers

with invective…

as I’m sure 

they do me…

I’m not so sure. 


I went to the concert
to hear the artist
and they were playing it
in the bar,
while I drank,
before the show.
I felt like I was choking
on something I loved.
I went outside
and took a deep breath
but they were out there too…
smoking the green,
of how out-of-touch they were
with what they had come to experience.
I felt square.
I wanted music
I got people instead.


They are tiresome.
They are here
for the same reason
I am here.
They are here,
in a different tone
and in a manner harsh
and foreign
to my senses.
It is unfair to hate them
as their motives are sound,
but I do it
That is my way…
and it works for me,
even as it destroys me.

A Cycle of Fiction

In each simple act

a communal experience lies.

We create the myth of our independence

while riding on the backs of others

whom we decry as parasites.

I forgo the honor of caring

(and with that the burden

of needing to acknowledge

my part).

I am left with the guilt

of knowing that I too am part

of the dirty truth about independence

and its humble impossibility.

It does not matter,


as the deeper truth about our collective selves

is that we are sharing the state of the individual

with one-another

and celebrating it as unique.


I was three feet from my front door,

my key pinched between my thumb

and index finger.

I heard my name, carried accross the street,


I sighed, feeling trapped.

“What?” I shouted over my sholder.

I had nearly made it, five more seconds

and I would have disappeared into the cool

quiet of my front room.

Instead I was about to talk with my neighbor,

who would almost certainly steal

the remainder of my Friday

complaining about the drug users

next door, and I didn’t care.

They hadn’t bugged me in years,

and it was Friday and I wanted a beer;

it was just inside, and I was not.

“Man, that ain’t polite,”

He said, upset at my attitude.

I still didn’t care.

It was Friday, and I wanted one of my beers,

cold and inside my house.

He proceeded to inform me that some out-of-towners

might park on my side of the street.

I still didn’t care.

I promised him that it wouldn’t be an issue,

he muttered that I had been gruff

as I turned the key in the door

and slipped inside.

I drank a beer while standing next to my sink;

it was good,

and I just didn’t care.