"If you have a heart, of any size, don't worry...  worrying only hinders growth.  It accomplishes nothing.  If you have a heart, don't worry...  the world will break it on a daily basis.  And then you'll be human.  Flawed, imperfect yes...  but you'll have your beautiful, broken heart.

And eventually, you'll have a tested, tattered soul...  weathered, but undeniably better for earning its troubled brow.  And the heaviness of your consoling conscience.  Grow into the soil, travel to the depths of empathy's roots, fundamental and entrenched.

Most won't comprehend why we may smile, in remembrance of unabashedly balling our eyes out, smile with a glimpse of the promises of hope.  But we do, and shall grow into a seasoned soul, with a liberated heart...  beautifully flawed."

The first thing that I would like to say, is that I hope you and yours are all safe and healthy.  Like the Deutsch family would toast:  "here's to happiness, health, and wealth".  That's one quality that I admire in the Deutsch's and the Hamilton's.  Undeniably, we have a strong inner drive and an ever evolving outlook, while maintaining our perspectives on what truly matters in life.

To be honest, looking back on the past year, there are very few instances when any defining moments jump out at me.  I certainly wrote a great deal of song lyrics and poetry.  I continue to find excellent writing prompts at hitrecord.org, and continue to make 100+ contributions there.  To this point, I have written 73 poems for my first book of poetry.  Just when will it comes to fruition ?  I'll keep you posted on its publication.

Although composing new music has not panned out, I take the most pride in a 7 segment set of poetic writing (not quite poetry, not quite prose) that may very well become an album.  Tentatively titled "The Floating Chronicles", I continue adding more chapters for the series.  The more segments (roughly five or seven paragraphs each), the better the project's chance of becoming an album.  Being fair, the subject matter doesn't exactly fit a lighthearted romp through the park.  Of course, when has any of my work been lighthearted ?  But it should be noted that the process of writing (as is usually the case) works wonders for my constant inner turmoil.

Rob and I celebrated our Crystal Anniversary this year.  That's 15 years we've beaten the odds, and we continue to evolve with each passing day.  Our relationship may not be the ideal in every way, but it has most definitely been the gift that keeps on giving.  He bought me a pair of high quality piercings for my ears, easy to put in and take out.  I bought us a hanging crystal, with other gems:  you hang it in your window and it acts as a prism, casting rainbows on your walls.  Two very gay-seeming gifts, but neither of us could really care less about it.

We're working on a streetcar layout / diorama.  It  provides us with something to focus on and to occupy our days.  Who couldn't use some stability in these troubling times ?  The bulk of the work lies in researching techniques and getting advice on the internet.  Therefore, Christmas has us presenting each other with gifts intended for the diorama.  Expect some pictures of the layout, only later rather than sooner.

I will leave you with a quote for the new year ahead.  It comes from an author whose work I've never read, but I admire his courage, his compassion, and his creativity tremendously.  Plus, it's just generally a good reference for getting through the uncertainty and alienation of the coming year.  I wholeheartedly endorse its repetition.

"Many people need desperately to receive this message: 'I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone'."

~ Kurt Vonnegut,
Timequake

The clicketing-clacking of a subway train, rocking me with its rumbler, I slumber.  A stumbler in the evening solitaire, spirits uphold the honorable dreaming calm I wear.  My mind meanders; it moans as I roam.  With its regular rhythm, time drones on toward home.

So we two travel, streamlined and meticulous, forbearing the harrowing meantime ridiculous.  Slipping from consciousness, the noxious mess of the rail car rocking.  My head keeps knocking against the steel plating.  Now the broadcast clearly stating this is my station.

I gather my night's belonging, shuffle cross checkered floor:  pawn, king, rook, knight, bishop, queen...  escalator rises unto the near dawning.  The admirable luminary obscured by procured monoliths erected with questionable hope.  Would mankind, taken aback, make favorable note with a true to type honor, as granted to a scholar, to ponder the merits of cloud castle turrets.

Pray pursue intently the art of world betterment.  Let your mortal duress fuel a reticent success.  May mankind be your business, and the underground railroad serve its purpose:  shuttling we who downtrodden seek not the king’s pardon.

Moment split between
pavement and infinite sky.
Shade and color bleed.

Remembering us.
Shedding insecurities.
Conquering the night.

So I gaze moonward.
Lunatics of Luna fall,
time treads brisk & grave.

As to set about
a real, never ceasing quest,
of tracing back miles

All hopes to regain
a royal consequence, for
shaking constancy.

Driving, the listless
ghosts of darkened yesterworld
have scarce been so kind.

The road before me
undulating as serpents
through valley and hill.

Past never relived
made sure resolve for mindful
presence made present.

When the anonymous approach and pass,
The possibilities do endless seem.
For whom of such fortune does lust's light gleam ?
A glance of deeper yearning had been cast.

Shall such a fleeting hope be kept inside ?
No, temporarily this dream is meant;
For none but luckily escape dissent.
The world gives far too much value for pride.

For in as so much given foolish dance,
In gravity, some words remain unsaid.
The night before left much fortune to chance,
an illustrated bonding left for dead.

So time will pass, but faithfully commands
that what is good on earth, ever withstands.

This weight upon the shoulders, my intellect made circumspect for me, as if these circumstances weren't meant to be. Upended by this melancholy mystery, I now believe more may be set free in the possibilities.

However the end comes, I do not fear the resolution to this convolution. The sole solution for the soul pollution.

​​Oh mortal circle from which I've reaped the rewards within, and banished the murder of beginning, from remembrance of simpler living.

But we friendly fools continue, gazing unto the skies where through a path becoming. Seemingly such clearness, we deny the convenience of cheerful upheaval. The Golden Staircase bestows an ending quite meaningful.

Will I possess the finale's request, or meet an unsuspecting death ? The purpose regressed under mortal duress.

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 awkward for being there. After all, she was inevitable. For her, every structure of her home melted into the mystifying backdrop of her cocaine 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 living. 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 at the celebration marveled at her spectacular ingenuity. None knew if her troubled brow was ever real. But she understood too much about feeling. Of being born a little further past strange, in the eyes of others. Outside we were paying our respects, praising her instances of illustrated delirium.

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 of guests, 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.