Tacred & Senna

The thorny brush surrounding the path was at least 8 ft tall. They could hear very little up ahead, only birds and the faint blowing of the wind swirling through the open air of Tybee Island. Senna was humming an improvisation of sorts, old bedtime melodies with a twist; her voice was calm in the air. She had a knack for coming up with tunes like this on the fly, it was almost as if she didn’t like the quiet in her head similar to a person who chose to sleep with a fan. The low noise provide a peace to her, gave her the ability to focus on anything but the rambling ideas in her head.

Tacred met Senna in the late nights of Savannahs melting pot; both had attended SCAD (Savannah College of Arts and Design) at one point and dropped out for a variety of reasons only to linger in the cities cultural mixture, wandering for the next level in them. In a sense they were stuck in the tourist trap economy, still captivated by the eerie history that was Savannah. Tacred had bigger dreams beyond seeing some success as a street performer in town, he felt captivated by resisting the modern urges of tearing down walls of civility. Laws (written, and morally common) were put in place to protect ourselves from ourselves, but they should be broken from time to time to challenge where we are in any moment. However, any new wave movement with the best intentions had plenty to fear. This thinking got him into trouble with feminist friends, but they respected his willingness to challenge everything, even the ones that made the lives of people seemingly more accepting. Sometime he would question others for fun. How boring is it to sit around sycophantically in a night that could get heated with just a couple words, he often mused.

Senna found her bond with Tacred came from their differences. She knew his heart and mind meant well, that people like him moved society in the right direction or at the very least kept things interesting. Rather than give into the temptations of a group or what was in vogue for the youth, Tacred let the ways of others flow around him…pulling from each thought an understanding toward the center of his own values. He was not afraid to say the word “black” when referring to black people or use language that was hijacked by supposed liberals to make society a more tolerant place. He believed the very tools of soft language, politically correct tone, and meek persona where not the ways of progress. But those very things hid from our discourse the essential elements to understand how in America…we speak, think, interact, and controlling the truth of people was failing to accept history and upbringing. This is not to say he thought hurtful language was okay, or hurting anyone was acceptable. He was just skeptical of being brainwashed from groups he agreed with already on most things.

Many nights they would quietly lie in the courtyards around the squares, underneath the willows weeping and sounds of horse’s hooves carrying travelers in their carriages. Savannah was such a weird place, a beautiful edge to the faces that worked along the River walk, selling trade, playing blues, cooking the morning beignets as the port hummed its usual tunes of industry. They were young and white; napping in the afternoon in the middle of the week outside on a Tuesday…their privilege was beyond reason.

Senna had plans to move west as soon as she had the money to do so, but Tacred wasn’t sure if he’d hop trains here in the States, or save money then head to Paris to meet an old flame he met years before in Chicago. They could go in any direction they choose. With free time and endless possibility the pressure could seem impossible. Even if nothing is pressing you, courage was still required to take a step in any direction.

“All we ever have to do is step through a door”


“Put your heart in the drawer and starve the bitch”

“Take the heart out and love everything, even the bugs”

Her smile walked in and he thought of another smile from twenty years before when he knew who she was, the one that got away when he was young, maybe 21. Sipping his coffee he realized it all was a ghostly reminder of non-existence. He saw the liquid movement of the next smile and remembered the day in the park when the birds yelled so loud purple appeared, like watching birth again. Uplifted by recent months, he ordered a chocolate chip cookie and watched heavy men load shipping material in the back of semi-trucks outside the window of the coffee shop, where he was listening to professional writers interview each other for a poetry podcast. There was a local artist he had seen around town for years sitting a few chairs over, but it never felt right to say hello… then he thought, “that’s just how it is here in the old city”. As he sat by the window the rain poured down for hours, his hands typing away, his thoughts free from corrosive narratives and useless characters he’d long forgotten. It was by all interpretation the moment when he was gone and freed.

The awakening of self brings a wealth of momentary glass that shatters around the head, then falls to the ground. You will look at these pieces sticking to you.

“Don’t look at the pieces”

“Look at them and conquer them”

“Eat an egg and shut the frick up about it”

You will ask the questions and hide your inner self behind the public persona to evade what ever it is haunting you. It will hold on like an invasive species…So go for a walk to shake it off? Or lets have a conversation with a new face, once again going out into the world as an individual touching another while trauma boils in the veins.

“Sex isn’t serious, right?”

“Lets go dance and find out”

“I should have gotten in the car with those two chicks man”

“You didn’t?”

“That was stupid”

“I want to be bigger than just one sex act”

“Dude, you think too much”

“Yeah, do you think it’ll kill me?”

“Oh, for sure”

“Its not about this or that, it’s the whole you see?”

“Ah, I see, I get it now”

“No you don’t”

‘Thank you for saying that”

“Your welcome G”

“Oh, and I was lying before… I did get in the car”

“Good Job!”

If we are to live then we should invest in crazy to test the boundaries of this box, in every direction. Some of us are actually “crazy” and for that I get to hear weeping voices breathing heavy in the dark when the phone rings.

“Triggered, a boat in an ocean that’s empty”

“You can’t save anyone”

“Well, I can give them a map?”

“They are directionally challenged”


A simple search online will give you a vast amount of information on how to deal with yourself in the tough spots. How do you do it?

“Join in on the new hashtag movements”

“Go get drunk with friends”

“Don’t get drunk at all”

“Learn a new skill”

“Carpentry 101 has a vacancy this month”

“Plant a tree”

“Don’t plant anything right now its cold outside”

“I thought we could plant things in cold things?”

“Have you heard the new gang starr album?”

“Whose that?”


Go here, go there, eat and don’t eat. Get active or don’t. You’re going to feel it all no matter what you do. Feel it, soak it in, breath words into new words you’ve never said before.

“You happy?”

“Well, I was until you asked me, now I’m thinking ‘am I happy?’ so no longer can I be happy because I’m thinking about it, thanks”

“Can I ask you for year how you are feeling every morning?”

“Sure, that sounds like the gem of all plans there buddy”

The tools that break down the remnants (ghosts) are found in creativity. This isn’t for material ways though, its how you walk, how you turn up the core of yourself everywhere you are and you get so comfortable that you forget to think about anything else. Pick up the broken wings and glue them to your rib cage…they are emotional children and they need you. Honor them, they are teaching you, arming you so you’re ready for the next thing. That sounds pretty good actually.

“You don’t have to think about it”

“They don’t deserve anything from you”

“Ok, lets go to the movies”

“I’m too alive for movies”

We all hold power and we give it away sometimes. What we learn is even the strongest powers cannot be used if the place it’s channeled is not the canvas to which it was intended – jobs, people, art, any of it. You know when it doesn’t fit, the point in our ability to grow is how well we listen to ourselves. To accept ourselves we become closer to a higher state of existence or consciousness. The reveals in any painful experience are  required in order to reach all the heights of Joy. You cannot escape either reality.

“If you yell into a canyon and there is no echo, then this is no canyon.”

“Forward it goes into the great still surrounded by the endless avenues of possibility.”

In the dark the dance faded beyond any reachable memory. The pages turned from a book he purchased yesterday at his favorite used book store, the nightly intake was clean, naturally pure without stimulants, well… he’d smoke another cigarette. Resting in the motionless space he fell asleep as the door behind him closed and the voices haunting him no longer could penetrate his new forming shields of power. Silent he was alone to himself – silent the world was new. Flicker little light, flicker…flicker….and the roaring traffic outside the sliding glass door carried sound miles away. The highways of privilege and fitting ends for new beginnings.

“I will write until my eyes are no longer”

“Then you will hear everything”


After The Before

after the before

There use to be a simple idea in my head about creating fantasy to obtain reality. When in actual reality, you are in the moment you are in, not without control of actions, but without certainty. A life unfolds in the ether, it shifts and moves with an abundance of thoughts, materials, shuttering within itself. There is nothing wrong with hope, or “manifesting” your directions to see how much of your future you can control, it’s a technique to surviving through this giant mess of existence. I’m learning over these past months, there is no control. You like things, you project a persona to hold onto what you like. Yeah, be real, be authentic, but the world is gonna be the world, and you are in it, without much control. You have your moments, and a developing philosophy on how to get through them, but ultimately you just have yourself. Yes, other people are important. I’m not saying your alone so be alone, I’m saying OWN YOURSELF, then be in the world.

I certainly believe in energy. There is a force you give and take from. This field gives it back to you, I believe that. I have no answers to any questions beyond myself, and in that self, is an endless line of more questions, so what do I really know? A person, if they’re connected to who they are, knows what to do, how to trust their intuition, right? Many times the fantasy we create will confuse that instinct, it will blurry the lines, shade the colors, and put you out there slightly different from what you might realize. I don’t know if it’s a bad thing. I figure “fantasy” creates ambition, which creates purpose, and brings forth new lights, and education? All those things are good. It’s easy to see how quickly we can get swept up in a faith or perspective that’s not really ours, but brought back to us from transferring our fears, or ideals in self, onto someone else, or a new experience.

Lets be clear here. Life is already hard without spending the moments in it hoping to gain even the slightest grasp on what it is you’re trying to accomplish. Do we really ever know what we’re doing? Or do we spend our whole life trying to figure it out, so we’re sheltered from the true blue reality that its gonna be over, poof, we’re gone? I most certainly want to live a full life, free to myself, within a community of like-minded or differing people. But it’s fantasy. It’s not so far off that it won’t happen, but I can’t help but think the idea of it keeps me from truly living right now. All we are is now, whats behind a door, or a curtain, doesn’t matter, you’re always going to have to go straight through it, not around it. I’m gonna hopefully stop trying to predict, or know whats after, the before. I can go straight through anything, taking and giving, sponging for art, building up myself so I can live as an example in boldness, or simply stated, truly being who I am, not who I am supposed to be, or who I think I can become through remedy.

There is no riddle to solve. Sure, learn from what you do. You better be open to that part, but there is no answers, just more and more questions. You pick up little pieces and build fictional houses in your mind of what you believe gives you the sense that you are on top of everything. But in reality, you’re in the wind, blowing around, landing, then up and away you go again, to a new place. All along you’ve had the only answer you’ll ever need, which is to say, you are always right there. No control on time, or others. It’s just you out here. Keep your things to get through all of this, you need them. But they’re not the saving forces of any outcome (maybe sanity). You have no control, and in that, there’s  real freedom.

The tricky part is understanding how to really feel that space. Which brings us back to the “more questions” part of this piece. I think too much “self-care” is dangerous. Not because its harmful in the immediate sense of the word, but its possible that ritual brings repression in a person. Not everything you’re looking for is in the earth, or in a book someone else wrote teaching you how to read signs, or dissect some cool philosophy.  Yeah, if it makes you feel better, go for it. But how much are you missing b/c you read somewhere the elemental signs in a day reveal a clear path?  And whats really going on if you’re always having to find a place that “feels” better, is it better? So I guess this is the part I take a deep breath and feel everything, let emotions be my guide? Maybe even a scarier place. Emotional response can be as fickle as a chemical reaction in your body from lunch. I’ve spent plenty of time in this world. Not all bad, and gifts come from it, but intensity can be a real curse. That shit will pass and there you’ll be, again, and again, with different perspectives. It’s not wrong to feel, or work on yourself, but you have to let go and be where you are, this might be the most important step I’m thinking. Balance is important, but forced balanced isn’t real balance. So what do we know then? Haha!

The hope is you can experience enough, not to spend all your time focusing on who you are, but just enjoying, that you are someone at all. If you’re lucky, you’re a creative person, a kind person. If you’re unlucky, I have no idea what you are. I don’t know if I even believe in luck. Maybe the real answer is to not believe in anything at all? Nah, for me, creativity is where I find the most joy and comfort and whats close to some understanding of who I might be today, and maybe that’ll be tomorrow? It’s not the thing you hang on a wall mind you. It’s the governing philosophy that to create is to live. This comes in all forms. You can be creative without a product to sell, or a fashion to hitch yourself to. The mind is imagination, not sheltered by walls, but open, wild, and becoming. There is an endless river of fear in the idea of malleability. But in that there is hope, there is a place of peace. That I, the human being living with this blood, this matter, am a walking, talking, thinking, endlessly searching individual, and its ok that’s not forever. Its ok I don’t know what it means, or how I relate to the signs. I’m open to it all, thats how I know I am alive.  There’s different ways to obtain it, none of us know, or have the right remedy. And we never will. That has to be the gateway to happiness. Otherwise, we’ll just waste our time looking, instead of standing still in the ever-present reality of, right now. That stillness is the most powerful thing I have ever felt in my life. Its the core, the soil, the palm of a hand. Its where it all feels the most real. And its where I’m sending off all my hangers on, all my fleeting moments. They belong to that space now, and I belong to nothing but myself, in that space.

NOTE: I easily meet people and get lost in them (if there’s something to it), almost like a mechanism to take what I need for my imagination in order to produce art. Like a vessel that goes undercover, collecting data and new inspiration so the ghost will come and feed the muse. I’m not sure this is healthy, but its real, and I’m honest about it. But I also find I deny it so I can believe the experience is worth more than it is. Do I write poetry and express raw emotion to others because it’s for them, or do I do it because the “idea” of it is intoxicating? Are they the drug, and I’m the addict? It’s interesting to think about. I’ll give that to the stillness as well. Bye Now!



The Outer Wolf


I wrote while listening to this.

Nothing owes me, not even my experience. We see it around the corners, I feel it in my body, the extensions of grace swoop up the prey, and I devour that feast. That bird can’t fly alone, the hunters run without aim, without cause, just a simple need to swallow the energy, consume it like waters flowing down the chests of a beautiful body, becoming liquid in its cascade of no expectations. My arms angle animalistic rituals, my tongue a string, the fish bite, I pull them up into the large circus of matter, molecule, and a lavish hush. We fly away like mother taking food to the nest. Your cameras can’t capture this, or pretend to identify it later in memoriam. I beat the nest drums, circle it again, and again. My hips move, bend, fold into a ball, pop like clichéd triangle tattoos.

So burst, watch the cattle dazzle themselves at the food troughs of their abhorrent America. You’re still, why the bodies move in fast forward, the lights blink, the engines signal, the hearts never stop to feel it. This city will eat you alive, and the woods are so loud you become blind, and only the outer wolves will signal you home. They will protect you from you, and themselves. They communicate with the face of the mountain, their dens inside the valleys of content, without ever having to change. They just howl, they just send the signal, its through the smoke, its in the fire, its below your feet in the street, its in all of us. My wolf hasn’t come home in years, but in the distance, the faint sounds of willingness are revealing his cast, he is alive and on the hunt. I just have to keep creating, and we will be one, again.

They’ve warned me about the clinging witch vibrating in colors. A vivid dream flashing, the crowd eyes surfing, a potential, thick enough to choke it forever, until its gone into another ethers wet spot. Good luck, it’s a forest of wonderment, grab a limb.

My muse is exploding like a heroine fix, your world is folding into spaces I’ve never seen. Those messages dance in the heat of it, we bake cakes, we eat it, then digest the algorithm. Warned, again and again, bemused to death like a marble rolling down fresh concrete. We can go miles, my hand prints locked in for a while. Hold nothing for fear, let it go for yourself. Hold the story for yourself, reading it to anyone willing to listen. Scream, roll down the brush while the whipping limbs scar your face until it fades to red. Your fucking dead now, your matter, earths nourishment, as it births a spec of dust.

I woke up around 4am. My eyes barely open enough to piss all over the toilet seat. The lists in my head playing like a poorly timed jazz band, the squeaks and squawks, the face, god damn…the face. It looks at me in the shadey winters of a mostly simple room, I see it clear like the sunrise, my hand on its cheek.  I puzzle, I stumble into the fresh new home my body has been drilling down for days; a penetrating allure of a gypsy dancing on top of me, tentacles suction the life, the invisible marks on my skin. The music, play the music, repeat the music, digest the music, become the music, don’t live there, RUN!

I turn on into real life, the monitor screens and speaker lights waiting for the orchestration of my hands. Let the build breathe for a few bars, let the sounds elapse and delay your brain to death, as the organic percussion shakes, jingles, and claps beyond the electronics. I hear the patters of my boys feet, they too are haunted by the early beauty of the dark morning hues. The life is a muse, many souls, many hands to hold. I turn to look toward this medium city, but now I see it differently. I want more than the standard level of consciousness. I want to eat the muse, and then be done with this life. I want it intense and funny.

“You want some apples son?”