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My photo
:, Indonesia
I do not speak my truth to antagonize you.... I share this swollen river running -- This waterfall of faith-- because it flows from me like lennon's endless rain.... --my paper cup: this poem-- to which an endless string of words spill out and on to... I stain the sentences with abundant articulations that boil inside of me... I thirst, I starve, I crave. and all that quenches... all that can satiate me is to open the faucet and allow the words to run... They skip and dance across themselves... They formulate on their way out like fireworks deciding which way they will face when they open and sizzle in the night air... And when they do... it's a sight to behold. It shocks me like the boom, and takes me aback to see what has emerged. And Keroac knew. He knew all along... that I was one. As my words explode like spiders across the sky... I watch in staggering wonder at my truth revealed and know that I am home here. I have taken my vow... signed in blood... solemnly sworn myself in... been hazed and pinky promised... and I know... without the shadow of a doubt... that I am a mad one. ...and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

...grandaddy...

...my grandfather's pocket watch winds backwards.
... the hands tick towards times of past
as he take long sips of cabernet
...and deep raspy breaths.
... stories unfold like paintings carefully drawn on canvas in sepia tones.
...with chin in hands and eyes following his flickering words I listen and absorb.

... my heart follows his to an era of clarinets and hand written love notes.
... when there was time to dream and time to believe...
... when the horns of ships called out to broken hearts and the air was clear.
... in wondrous, captivating awe I sit across from this man who's love story brought life to mine.

... watching the dancing wrinkles on his face, each line, each crease shows itself to me as an earned badge of courage...
... my grandfather's face reminds me to be brave enough to walk through the dark.

... to know that my story will one day be told though already written in the stars,
as I follow this trail that is laid for me and lined in the same daisies that grew beside his path as he walked it.

...I hear his laughter billowing like the wind and brushing by my face, gently patting my cheek the way his healing hands did so many times as his pocket watch ticked away time.

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