An acrostic poem is one when the first letter of each line spells a word or phrase. Mine spells the title of the poem:  "Magnanimous".  And the poem tells the story of its definition.​

"Magnanimous"

​Mankind traverses the earth.
And seeing a great many people,
Grows in a great many aspect.
Not completely, but essentially
Accounts for the grace of travellers
Not in bitter or shallow way, but
In fulfilling duty the good samaritan,
Magnanimous of word and action,
Offers up his seat, his drink, offering
Up some ease of suffering, to his
Sister or brother on the living road.

She seemed to drift away, every once and again.  Nobody could have witnessed it without feeling a little stranger for being there.  After all, she was inevitable.  For her, every structure melted into the mystifying backdrop of her Novocaine frame of mind.  And every unannounced gasp of an uninvited guest...  breezes strolling unsteadily.

She floated through in her vagrant lacking, full of memories no one had dreamed of her having lived.  But she had the right kind of eyes for journeys through her fantastic nostalgia:  glazed over in apathy.  Every imperfection cleansed.

​She floated through.  Everyone marveled at her special ingenuity.  None knew if her troubled brow was ever real.  But she understands too much about feeling.  Of being born a little further past strange to others.  Outside we were paying our respects, for her instances of illustrated disillusion.

She floated through.  Family members, best friends, lost loves...  noise control allows for their persistence.  None remain forever.  Traveling throughout the worn and torn house, she longed to love without fear, purpose, or grave form.  She longed, remotely.

We have our worn houses, all of us.  Most hold onto their household, but undeniably she knew better.  For all leave battered, embattled home fronts behind, eventually.  And she replied to the comforting removal, one last whisper for the absence of occasion: "I remain, and I float".​

I was too afraid to leave you, because everyone marveled at how you and I were the perfect match.  And you were such the perfect guy.  You know, the one who would fall apart and kill themselves if I left.

So I stayed, and hurt you as many ways as I could.  I pursued an old flame, cheated on you twice, ruined our minds with drugs...  but you were the perfect guy so you could never leave.

And then, you came back to my dorm room one night.  And you told me "I have to go", and in that moment we understood:  that was the end.   So we held each other, and cried, and then you left.

So...  going from the perfect guy to the evil one, I obviously didn't deserve to exist.  So...  I stopped existing.  Just kidding:  I tried to kill myself, but didn't do that right, either.

So...  I went back to my family, and gave up on everything.  But I wanted to be the perfect guy again, so I pretended to be you, all perfect and a suitable suitor for suicide.

What I learned ?  Part of me will always want to come home to you.  Yeah, that part may never die.  But I have a good life now.  My partner and I are celebrating our 15th anniversary this Halloween.  I'm writing daily, working on a book of poetry, a singer songwriter with 3 albums under my belt...  I'm even devoting myself to earning my BA in Creative Writing at the University that I quit.

But even with all of the success and failure, I have been, and probably never will be, perfect.  I'm human.  A little better at not being a disaster, particularly because I have this strange connection with everybody else who isn't perfect.  I think that it's called our common humanity.

​So I say, yet again, goodbye. Have a wonderful internationally traveling life with the perfect job and the perfect match...  and a big old fuck you for all of the guilt of never being good enough for you.

Because before all of the hurt I caused you, I knew that.  I knew that I needed to go, but undeniably you would have killed yourself, then I would have killed myself, and neither of us would ever stop being perfect.

And I just couldn't live like that.

There exists in life a challenge which we all pose to ourselves:  do we define a space for some eternal presence held ?  It exists maybe, but most are not consciously aware of it constantly, traveling within each of us, a peaceful piece of us.

Some call the presence God, one that created all creation for a source of divine inspiration.  And some consider it found in the scientific method, the logical connections intrinsic in reflections on those subjects we're perplexed on.  The well studied artist may persist in praising timeless works, raising them up as gifts in their discipline.

And I, forgone from long concluding, self-sealed under lock and key, may believe it to be the cathartic flow state, drawing from an explosion of fickle fate.  Often within a measured, tethered, and treasured solitude to carry through this life in fortitude.  All of these are silent means to achieve the impossible dream:  naming that which seems in most times unseen.

Or just another injection of an experimental predilection, to the ancient heavenly connection through timeless reinvention, by means of intervention.

Blank.  Wordless.  Endless.  Beginning...  an abstract condition from undercurrents now becoming violent.  Dissonant energies rise.  Amplitude.  Trembling and syncopated.  Original, deafening loss.  Answers unidentifiable.  Translations uncertain.  Made incumbent by anticipating algorithms.

Then, dissonance resounding, but now...  cautiously resolving.  Promises of the clean and distinct.  Pardon acknowledged, received.  Troubles parted since, mystified with intense gratitude.  In the fullness of matters, the future appears radiant. 

And so, as these seasons pass onward, light bends profound thoughts.  Fateful order becomes in every word, every thought, and every action.  Times cease to play as a variable.  Circles drawn in perfect, defining measure.

But the dark conversations carry on, somehow.  Tangents from all walks of life, draw lines of reason in the sand, away from some allegedly foretold break of genius.  Alas, developments rescinded around the infinite way, until at length they fall back to inconclusive conjectures.

And yet, the ever, unrelenting hope ?
Clarified, cognitive free-form...  unbound.

I love you, but that's the only thing that makes sense.  After I die, I'll still love you.  Maybe then I'll help you, instead of putting you through hell.  Far too long gone the hours of nothing wrong.  And if I go to hell, then at least I'll know that I made the right decision by leaving the finest lover whom I have ever known.  Because you are meant for heaven, and this demon always had the highest hopes for love.

Perhaps that is the matter:  when high hopes turn into great expectations.  Mere mortals like you and I, who believe ourselves more powerful than what our gifts allow, taste a bond too strong to break.  But that bond…  it really should have cracked years ago.  And life dragging us through it, like a mustang having us tied at the ankles and twisting through Arizona dirt roads in days of new frontiers.

So…  maybe we’re even further gone than I believed.  Far beyond driven...  until word of honor, vows, and pledges linger too long without any strong backing.  The best times can only be measured in hindsight, and that is all we have.  And with that, please excuse my drifting off into an indistinct horizon.  For I’ve never had a path to follow in my shattered mind, and you are the only shepherd to ever welcome me into the fold.  And this hell hath no fury...  no fury at all.  Only resignation.

I have always loved cathedrals, with intricate stained glass work, symmetrically patterned ironwork, brilliant painted murals, and massive pipe organs. For me, they truly are divine.

As a boy, I attended a Roman Catholic grade school, which had its own Cathedral: Mount Saint Peter's Cathedral to be specific. Countless stained glass depictions of the saints adorn the windows, my favorite depicting St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals. And the 12 stations of the cross, carved from wood with precision, border on the inner walls.

Constructed from the Andrew Mellon mansion in Pittsburgh, PA, (the church and school are located there also), it was mostly built from marble, with a marble hall below it. There is also a small chapel attached to the side of the cathedral where the prayer candles and the painstakingly carved wooden confessionals are located.

The altar is entirely made of exquisitely shaped ironwork: climbing, winding, and interweaving among marble columns, like sturdy grapevines culminating in a dome above. Also, the place reserved for the Chalice is a considerably sized, golden domed tabernacle, with a respectful amount of detail.

Finally, situated within the choir balcony in the rear of the cathedral lies an enormous pipe organ. I clearly recall that, as a child, the largest pipe matched the diameter of my head. I only have sung in the balcony choir on 2 or 3 occasions, but I would often gaze back at the gigantic pipe organ while attending mass in the wooden pews.

Although I have conflicted judgment of the time spent in Mount Saint Peter's Grade School, my memories of the Cathedral will forever be fond: my personal Cathedral of Learning.

"Oh me !   Oh life !   Of the questions of these recurring.  Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish.  Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless ?).

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d.  Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me.  Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined...

The question, O me.  So sad, recurring--
What good amid these, O me, O life ?

That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you
may contribute a verse."

~ Walt Whitman

I swear we were love.
We, once immortals of moonlight's
glances.  Now...  I'm praying
within forbearance.

Didn't we shine like bonfires
in autumn ?  Wasn't our lust an
ever present wafting jasmine ?

And after each fall from grace
at the hands of a masked Adonis,
we would begin upon a promising
current, back out to an all
consuming sea.

I am forlorn of any visit home,
for then the aching in my chest.
It knocks the wind out of my
lungs, ablaze with regretful gasps.

Still, I put a match to the
kindling of remembrance.  And
didn't we shine like bonfires ?

Heavenly body, swirling nostalgia...  a bittersweet testimonial in the clouds.  Loved ones passed return from the skies as snowflakes.  Making apologies with their breath hushed on the breeze...  in graceful, dancing descent...  regretful for their too long absence.

​And so, their kisses melt on our skin.  We count ourselves fortunate for their return, they with their reposeful touch.  In the midst of our despair, that drifting reunion will stay.

And so, you and I console each other, with the solemn reassurance that "pain builds character".  And we cling to that insistence:  that we emerge from our life's heartache wiser...  by far.  And, on occasion... comforted, by the blessing of the solace loved ones reawaken within.  Never doubt that.

These strange days...   I pray for their promise to stay.  To choose from a few is all I can do.  Or will danger knocking become food for talking ?  Those mocking my house of cards, left rocking in a strong breeze ?  I bleed whatever they don't want to see.   My house comes crumbling down. My house comes crumbling down.

But for as long as I can create a song by which to abate, I can rebuild... I will rebuild those painted wall pieces knocked down.  Still… time will rebuild woes; tainted call “cease”. It’s talked 'round.

Hearts, Clubs, Diamonds, and Spades.
Starts the dubs, light gone for days.
By and by, need not ask why.
Our spirits shall forever survive.

Hearts, Clubs, Diamonds, and Spades.
Starts the dubs, light gone for days.
By and by, need not ask why.
Our spirits shall forever survive.

These strange days...   I pray for their promise to stay.  To choose from a few is all I can do.  Or will danger knocking become food for talking ?  Those mocking my house of cards, left rocking in a strong breeze ?  I bleed whatever they don't want to see.   My house comes crumbling down. My house comes crumbling down.

But for as long as I can create a song by which to abate, I can rebuild... I will rebuild those painted wall pieces knocked down.  Still… time will rebuild woes; tainted call “cease”. It’s talked 'round.

Hearts, Clubs, Diamonds, and Spades.
Starts the dubs, light gone for days.
By and by, need not ask why.
Our spirits shall forever survive.

Hearts, Clubs, Diamonds, and Spades.
Starts the dubs, light gone for days.
By and by, need not ask why.
Our spirits shall forever survive.

​Do people who say they're real honestly mean it, or understand what it represents ?  I would love to know this, too.  Is it just something that a few people say ?  Or does it actually stand for something ?  Does it even matter ?

Sometimes I doubt myself in this respect, just as I doubt others around me.  I fight myself every day, battling inside for my own sake.  The world outside of me has one answer about who and what I am inside.  I fight for my soul, my true nature, but my mind is flawed and weak.  Every positive thing that I achieve daily is discounted and taken as a lie; all perceived failure, a reason why I don't deserve to exist.

"The whirling dervish of the world surrounds, but my heart still bleeds with the curse of needs."

I wrote that lyric in one of my least hopeful songs.  All that I can deduce, from all that I experience daily, is that I need to feel emotional heartache when I am out among my fellow human beings.  It's the one thing that restores my peace, my sense of wholeness.

Is that what it means to be real ?

​Jim Morrison once wrote of a lost section of highway, curling and bending through hollows and ravines, in the twisting paths midst barren desert mountains.  Far beyond twisted than the highway man, lying in wait further ahead.

Yet in my dreams...  so beautiful, breathtaking.  When we come out of the blind untrustworthy turnings...  those hills yield their grasp to unraveling open road.

Now...  two lanes, laid bare as with a ruler.  You cannot see any ending ahead, nor the beginning of your traveling in hindsight (rear view).

That's the best way:  smoothed 66, vacant and beckoning you onward, the hazardous moments caught with plentiful time to prepare.  Even so, the hours lie ahead:  hazy-desolate.  You come to the straight away, gazing for miles 360° (pure, bare-bones, and fundamental).

Be grateful then.  Your dear vagabond, this tale imbued of esteemed moment, presented by gracious nature.  My penning conveys only a fragmented reflection of the heartache consoling.  A knowing of solace is meant to be savored, and held inside as if...  gone too soon.

One morning, almost a decade ago, I was struck by the inspiration that comes only from staying awake for all of the previous night.  I sat down at the computer and began a fervent outpouring of guts and aspirations for hours on end, knocking off several chapters of what came to be the beginnings of my short story:  "Around".  I've added bits and pieces to it over the years, but it was shelved and went on to collect far too much dust.  That is, until I attended a graduation party for my cousin's son.  I sat down...  wrote out a brief synopsis for a novel that would include my short story as a section.

Fast forward to current day...  the character building is finished, and many chapters written.  The book will be in mostly arbitrary segments.  Characters come together much in the much akin to the movie "Magnolia" or more so like Stephen King's "The Stand".  These characters work earnestly to achieve a healing, both personally and collectively.  They gather a deepening awareness, imbued with a sense of hope from what they accomplish, despite the imposing complexity of life.

Only the intellectually engaging (slightly daunting) process of writing and fleshing out the story remains.  As of late, I spend most of my time with monologues that would make for pivotal moments in the story.  I like to think of these as "Aha... moments":  tying together prolific reflection and rich character growth.  Live broadcasts and other content from an instagram group named Kiingo, help me stay inventive with new composition tools and techniques.  They've been invaluable for approaching what, without a better diversified perspective, could be tedious and uninspired.  Advice, ideas, and opinions on the subject are welcome and encouraged.

Today, a true friend from days of old, shared some insight on her Christmas heritage. Hearing someone with cherished traditions say "however you celebrate is wonderful", in the current state of this world, is both fantastic and comforting.

Like her, my family keeps the tradition of an Advent calendar. We may not attend Catholic Mass or agree with all Catholic dogma, but we have a ceramic nativity that came over from Italy with my Great Nana when she was a little girl. There are many special ornaments that have been passed down, and others that will probably become heirlooms as well.

There have been some clashes between my partner and I over how to keep Christmas. He is an atheist, and questioning what is real and what is important over time... that is one truth in our kinship. He feels the stress of getting gifts heavily, but he has some of the best ideas for them too: practical, creative, and personal. There is a sparkle in his eyes when he receives a special gift, and as time passes he grows closer to family. So as that evolves I count us blessed to find compassion and understanding among us.

That is what Christmas is about, right ? Connecting with people. "Resetting our internal clocks and hearts", as my old college cohort reminded me. Restoring and strengthening some heartfelt kindness and good will.

And with that I wish the best for you and yours, always. It will never be too late to make positive change in yourself and others. Let your light shine brilliantly. And thank you for sharing it with all of us.

Uncertain, alone.  Within a common tone, men and women reveal our own passions by the vessel of our actions, mostly without the drive for a single insistence, to justify their all too lethal persistence, in living lives free of resistance, for cryptic minds in regal subsistence.

Without borders or nations, stories are spun without narration.  The 1st person's a keeper if we remain as a seeker for the strength to be meeker than in days heretofore.  Careful to be clear whose door you close.  Those whom we're true toward...  all deserve kindness, regardless the sorrow we fear shall usher in tomorrow.

For only to empower truth, its innate proof kept safe by wallflowers in history's high towers.  Imbued with such powers, we sense with intuition and dispense with all suspicion of pretense, or some condition too immense for man's rendition, at dire expense coming to fruition.

Being a stranger in a strange world, I feel more at ease. There are no ties binding me to my surroundings, or anything. I go voluntarily... no past, no future... a quieted down means of expression and experience. I exist comfortably, knowing nothing of worry outside of the time being.

And that, I think, is the key to understanding the truth inside: a blank mental space with no prejudice, and no pretense. Freedom of communication lives in the present, not static or fear. I simply find interest in living, to roam with no real destination.

Still, I too settle into improvisation... as a means of coming to terms with the augmented reality of an intrigued societal subjugate. Concentrations of commentary wax poetic and wain philosophical.

And I have woken up... out of carrying contentions and back into the hear and now, meandering through the faint atmosphere and these shaking shadows. I know intrinsic certainty in a true melancholy stability, even though the boundless do invade my mysterious, mortal dwelling. A temporary peaceful vessel, I see the horizon bend light and time... and I'm nobody.

Would you rather live for something worth living for, or die for something worth dying for ?  When all is said and done, they both reach the same conclusion.  I should probably explain what I originally thought the difference to be between them.

I live by 3 axioms:  Do no harm; help where you can; and create inspiring and empowering work.  So generally, I consider myself a "live for something worth living for" person.  With a few reservations, I am proud to give support to a nonprofit organization called Amnesty International.  They champion social justice causes around the world without affiliation to any one government:  abolishing the death penalty; advocating for the release of prisoners of conscience; and promoting the free exchange of ideas in stable and peacefully established, democratic societies.

But by having a closer look at what it means to "die for something worth dying for", there isn't much difference between the two.  Certainly, one can choose to physically sacrifice their life for another, but even by that example they would be extending living for something worth living for to its mortal conclusion.

For this respect, I will reword the second part as "killing for something worth killing for".  By one of my three axioms, I can do no harm.  The taking of another life, to be concise, goes against my very nature.  I have my demons and darkness inside, and I live with them daily.  Rather, it's because I live with demons and darkness inside, that I do my best to give what I give...  to compensate for my imperfections and shortcomings.

Unfortunately, killing for something worth killing for is a necessary evil of the world.  Soldiers must take the lives of others to maintain societal freedoms.  No doubt that in a perfect world, there wouldn't be a need for war.  However, mankind is an imperfect being in an imperfect world, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.  And so with a heavy heart, the soldier's hand moves us toward the freedom of expression and the preservation of our civil liberties, with integrity and honor. 

But there is one aspect of this human condition whereby I can help the soldiers:  I can lend my support to Amnesty International, All Out, and the ACLU so that the soldier won't need to take as many lives, fight on as many battlefields.  I can save the soldiers' lives, just as the soldier saves mine.  It's this strange, unfortunate balance that we strike with each other...  it's the most that we can do for ourselves.

I know that I've spoken in generalizations here, so I look to you to comment your thoughts, passions, and where you stand in this world...  in the comments below.  I thank you for your time spent reading here, and your consideration of what I have said here.  Best wishes to you and yours.

Questions well thought out will take flight forever.  Answers well founded bring success in hopeful endeavors.  We who were spending through a long heartache, will grow a whole wonderful world within.  We are all travelers in this greatest tragedy.  Where to begin ?  How to begin ?

Who am I to you ?  Why do you live ?  How do you love ?
What do you mean ?  When can you start ?


The history of the balance between reading palms and tea leaves, or believing the ill strike down of helpful deeper meanings.  A reminder of the world war on truth, beauty, freedom, and love.  With an unconventional will, our souls are certain to rise above.

Who am I to you ? Why do you live ? How do you love ?
What do you mean ? When can you start ?


We'll learn about the worlds untold and everything surrounding.  This, that, the other...  everything's astounding.  In the good grace of what I may strive toward, surely someday I'll deserve my life more.  Maybe we'll find something else within the mind...  build a strong abiding faith in human kind.

Who am I to you ?  Why do you live ?  How do you love ?
What do you mean ?  When can you start ?


​So our trust in the importance and goodwill of others, must be built carefully with our sisters and brothers.  I falter greatly but less often than at first.  The slate of wrongs daily wiped clean, in rebirth.

Who am I to you ?  Why do you live ?  How do you love ?
What do you mean ?  When can you start ?

I wrote and posted this piece last week, but was very unsatisfied with it. So, I made a few changes. To understand the title better, and how it applies, look up Nathaniel Hawthorne's novel by the same name.

​​Through the complexity, I have found a strange, intrinsic presence in the periodic untying of my mind.  I  have spoken of this before:  this dive into entropy, this deathly peace.  Hope in presence springs eternal moments of inspiration, when simplicity is revealed for that which was once beyond our comprehension.  The presence at the source of my awakening is none other than all mankind's common heartache.

Thankfully, that pain grounds us in humility, reminds us of our humanity and our mortality.  It allows us to feel, to develop a sense of empathy.  It helps us because we sense our soul again, because it quiets rampant thoughts, silences the ego, preparing us for better things.

In this hopeful truth, we develop a deepening appreciation for all that is in this vast universe.  Not because it is infinite, but because we are transient beings.  We exist as both a part of, yet simultaneously apart from, all of creation.

With this incorporeal heartache, we travel through life, traveling upon firmer ground for the soul.  We are imbued with further opportunity for clarity within, and some day the minister's black veil will be lifted from our eyes.

Sad thing to trust, but sometimes you lose, no matter how hard you've been working to prove.  Though we can't loosen the grip of our demons within, it's the only place that a true change can begin.  But no need to covet answers from above.  Only keep close the song of the dove.

A subtle change in view, like a flickering light, can lead the longest loved to choose to take flight.  It leaves us with a dull ache begotten, the pang of their passions never forgotten.  But no need to covet answers from above.  Only keep close the song of the dove.

Outside of our minds lies a crippling world.  There are terrible things done in the name of flags unfurled.  Too much noise can create a cold, deafening silence, the presence of which entices fools to follow with violence.  Alas, no need to covet answers from above.  Only keep close the song of the dove.

-- Me

He was glad to be alive.  Now he's mad from being alone.  It's the worst way to go, when your mind's a home that you no longer own.  Too much time spent passing time.  In his search for some proof of enlightenment, to fix the hole in his roof where the light gets in...  the whole of his head came crashing down, under the weight of going in circles, and now...

In circles, his mind goes in circles.  His mind is not his own.  In certain circumstances...  in certain circle dances, throughout the four seasons, his mind is not his own.  His life's a reminder to be forgotten.

Sometimes the mirror shows the confusion in his eyes.  Sometimes the mirror shows a conclusion to goodbyes.  The roots of our existence are true in their persistence, as we try to live lives of fortitude and pride.  No remorse from the source of our trials, just a grave case of hysterical survival.

In circles, his mind goes in circles.  His mind is not his own.  In certain circumstances...  in certain circle dances, throughout the four seasons, his mind is not his own.  His life's a reminder to be forgotten.

"​How long have we been covered by the clouds of confusion ?  All the hapless delusions bring only beautiful illusions.  Such pain not included, these dreams were concluded.  It becomes crystal clear why the banishment of fear (the essential concern from which we learn) can never leave the ground.  If we are to be sound of mind, then remembering our mortality must become divine.

Intelligence can become an attractive sense, if it is placed carefully so in an apropos scenario.  Entropy qualifies as such:  a gradual decline into chaos, an infinite loss.  But logic can impose order, as we grow older...  until the heart is strong enough to allow itself to heal.  Only then can the soul feel a renewed sense of purpose, and carry on in this circus."

​-- Me

After finishing my search through the journals covering my 20's in Milwaukee, I found almost no usable material for my current project:  the 50 piece poetry book.  Seems like I poured everything of any importance into Kuderski and my 2 albums together.  That's all good and fine, but I really did, and still do, have high expectations where my creative abilities are concerned.

There are two songs that didn't make the cut for my solo debut.  I simply thought that my vocal delivery just wasn't up to standards.  You know, I couldn't seem to get it out right.  So, I'm reworking them both.  Either way, the price of the album will NOT be raised.  Meaning that if you buy the whole release, you'll have 14 songs for the cost of 7 songs.

Fortunately, I'm drawing inspiration from the novel I have been writing.  No progress adding to the novel, but I've found plenty related to the deeper content of the human condition.  "What's it all about" takes center stage for many of us, but especially during our 30's and later in life.  Maybe it relates to more of us then because the days of our youth move further and further behind us, distant memories in a linear progression of time.  Only time will tell, but the world seems far more promising now.

That's really all for now.  To be honest, the day to day, humdrum roll of it all taxes me much greater these days.  My last blog, that I wrote yesterday, addressed all of those subjects, so if you're interested in that sort of testimonial topic it's right there for you.  I hope that this posting finds you doing well and in good spirits.  If not, may you discover the root of your discontent, and tear that weed out of the ground.  Take care, and best wishes to you.