Spontaneous Haiku

Naked & angry,

He, in, the heat of the night,

Summoned his demons.

Not a Writer

“Not a writer” who doesn’t drink, Who doesn’t think in terms of words Constructed fondly, full to the brink With meaning and moving like herds Of a mass, many seemingly one thing.


My tinkerings with reflective geometry theory finally paid off! I have a working visualization and infinitely expandable numerical constant for the decay of unpredictable termination along a pair of 2/4 axis!

Take Joy

We are told to never be content with what we have, to never settle for less than more.  I challenge you to take joy in any simple pleasure you are ever afforded.  Are you warm? dry? clean? healthy? Do you have friends? family? a roof? freedom? You obviously are using a computer with internet.  We don’t deserve the least of pleasures yet we ignore so many.  Even if you disagree regarding entitlement, there is little excuse for unappreciative apathy. 


Bottle-capped geyser, never felt wiser, to drown an ear in bubbly fear and set the oceans free.

This, my friend, would be the end to ghastly pressure beyond measure.


I find myself transfixed and contentedly so, to sit and stare in utter awe at the bushes outside the window beside me. Though they barely move in the breeze, their form is ever changing in perception, undulating with radiant propensity for existential significance, not the least of which is manifested in a breathing glow that swims and flies and dances among so many needles of evergreen wonder.

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Hurricane to the Head

My head is sent spinning, caught on the gust of an unexpected song, left unwinding in stupefying motion.

Imagination fell short by miles of nearing in precedent the delight within her soul.

At that I join the choir of those proclaiming this as madness.

Madness it must be, and to madness I must go.

After a while.

As Time Goes By

Love. Few words in our language carry so much weight, yet are flung so frequently from the surface of every English speaking tongue. Romantic love is often lauded above all else, and despite its age equaling exactly that of humanity itself, remains garbed with wonder and mystery. Science has yet to explain or quantify the effects which artistic endeavors have been so often dedicated to express, how this phenomenon endlessly enraptures, bewitches, enrages, and further proves apt to puppet the full range of human emotion from a cortex of immense power we call love.

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Sky on my head and ocean below, never such a sound as the cold clouds blow.


(Written last night, in observing my own journey through grief)

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