The Front Door

There’s a book I once read.
Can’t summon up the name
nor the Author,
nor do I remember much of the details,
the main character went on a quest
to witness a wolf.
A true free wolf.
Whether he found his wolf or not,
I don’t remember.
I can’t recall if I even finished the book.
I’d bought it in a used bookstore in some fleeting city,
to pass away the time
while I was roaming the country.
Probably gave it away to somebody
in another city along the tar river.
Things come and go on the river.

What I can figure out,
the man hit the road,
progressing into the woods
in his quest to locate a wolf.
ME, I disembarked from the ship,
descended into the Big City,
secured a job in a kitchen once more
Aspiring to settle down.

As I write this, I can only speculate
Why I even thought of the book,
except for the similarity
of our quest of exposing ourselves
and the unusual tidbit,
we both discovered our own wolves:
I wasn’t even looking, Didn’t think so.
His was in the woods wearing a fur coat;
And Mine, the kitchens of the big A,
wearing an apron.

I’ll try an’ make it short,
I grasp the opinion we’re all busy people,
trying to keep up
with the fast Jet-Set Credit Card pace
of the optic fiber world.
I couldn’t emphasize my life as a bad one,
a little lonely yeah, but bad no.
I wasn’t beat nor abused by my parents,
even if they did leave me on my own a lot.

As soon as I was old enough
to acquire a job and move out, I DID.
The time since,
I consumed mostly upon the tar river.
I‘ve stepped foot
in every state of the continual U.S.
I‘ve seen a million gigabytes of road sides,
thousands of megabytes of Rest Areas,
quick stops, back stages,
couches, floors,
attic, basement, and motel rooms, street corners
and a few jail cells along the way.

You’re wondering what I did
While I was out there
Wasn’t thief, dealer nor beggar.
I sold my art.
I ‘d been a roadie, a guitarist,
even a singer at times in different bands
No one you’ve heard of.
There’s never been an album, much less radio play.
Other times
I ventured upon the tar river by myself,
airbrushed t-shirts, performed one man plays,
or recited poetry in parks, parking lots, back stages,
and coffee houses across the country.

How does one start
And begin to tell you my story?

I want to tell you how I feel.
I want to explain it.
I want to use my own words,
the words of my life.
And yet nothing is mine is it?
I’m a collage. a recipe.
an ingredient taken
from HERE,
one from THERE.
When I look back,
I see scenes of sheer ignorance
My NEED for acceptance,
when in FACT
my actions carried me away.

When my heart stops,
let it remain so.
Do not try to REVIVE IT.
Do not hook it to some machine
To prolong the matter.
NO take my hybrid heart

Take the ashes and toss ‘em to the wind.

I want you to remember me every time
the wind blows thro’ your hair,
my beautiful anonymous angel


To know ones value.
To know yourself.
To do this, one must act.
I did so.
My life’s such a strange color;
your eyes’ll tremble.

I don’t care about my personality,
I’m not interested in cultivating it
on some psychiatrist’s couch.
I’ll not treat my life as an experiment
nor become as everyone else.
I wish to be what LIFE makes me.
For it is life,
which forms and controls me.
The collage cut and pasted
active nothingness.

I understand that to love,
to act, and suffer,
is indeed to be alive.
that’s what’s most serious and intriguing.


Who am I? What am I?
These questions must be asked.
They’ve come to me many a sleepless night.
What is the purpose?
I just happened
A sperm and an oocyte connecting
Cells doubled and double again continually.
A baby’s formed, An odd naked creation.
When did it happen?
When did the soul become?
The echo traveling down the hallway
and out into the world.

“once in every man’s lifetime
should there be a great walk,
a pilgrimage;
not only to get know god better,
but to know oneself.”

My whole life’s a great pilgrimage.
A great walk trying to discover the who,
the why, the where and the what.

I can tell you of these things.
These wonderings.
I can show you my paintings.
Let you read my poetry.
I save for myself
The weight of it all.
I still keep feeling it, living inside
that great howling
which forms in this proud crackling hybrid heart

I couldn’t keep silent. I tried..
Putting pen and mic down.
What I have to say,
Must be spoken.
HERE. and NOW.
Let the hour hand reach it’s full circle,
fermenting and forming its own shapes.

I stand before you, now
you will not forget me.
Your eyes will not let you.
I am alive. My advise.
-Don’t trust a god
that doesn’t dance.


this whole thing is a work in progress.
just like my life
just bear with me as I move in.