What One Thinks About Seven Hours From Home

All cities are dirty
That much is true

Universally

Sidewalks are survivors of the plague

While skyscrapers have both feet in the grave

It’s not just leftover trash

No what about the discarded

The four-toothed junkie

Who begs for dollars

Or the woman with five children

Who’s only desire is to watch her children swim

Risking the rules of trespassing just to baptize them

It is these specks of cosmic dust, these stains that humanity that has tried to eliminate

With a system that is 99.9 percent effective

They still remain,

To remind us that the city

Is also the dumpster

Where man leave his treasures.

Advertisements

Remembered Strangers, Forgotten Lovers

There will come a day, months after that day

When the inevitable will happen

And your position in my life will become both past and future

I’ll see a girl who looks like you, and she’ll smile like you did at my jokes

And her eyes will tell me all the things you used to whisper to me.

We’ll probably date for awhile,

At first to make you hurt then long enough for me to start seeing you in her reflection

To blend our memories together with hers

How parasitic we really are

Continue reading Remembered Strangers, Forgotten Lovers

Always Returning

This is it. Standing in the airport, watching them all go. As do I, back home. With new ideas, and ink. New York was proof, that the person I’m becoming is not only tolerated, but welcomed by the world. And by myself.

To operate in a space freely, using my camera to do what? To show that God is everywhere. There’s work to be done, so much work. Each day needs to be used to the fullest. Don’t forget what you have learned here:

Continue reading Always Returning

The Special Pen

This story is dedicated to all those souls who were taken from us too early through injustice, hate and violence. This is also dedicated to those who’s hearts and notebooks are filled with the silent echoes from the past. May these words grant us a minute of reprieve.

When I was born God gave me a pen. He said it had special ink. When I was old enough, the world gave me a notepad and then told me it was time to use the pen; however God gave me no instructions. So I started writing, and the pen worked. But not long enough. The ink would fade by the next day. I wrote about many things. about love. about fear. about the future. But my notepad was always blank by the morning. So I put it away.

I saw the name of a soul who was taken too early. It hurt to see this happen, so I decided to try the pen again. It bled this time, and I awoke the next day to find that my notebook was now real. Weeks later another name found it’s way into my book, then another. At first, these names were so important, because they were so few and the white space was so great. However, more and more began to appear, faster too. So quick that my hand began to hurt and the notebook started filling up. On occasion, I had to write many names at once and my fingers would go numb.  Eventually I had a list of names that never disappeared.

Continue reading The Special Pen