where the writers are


September 22





The point of surviving, or maybe the goal after survival, is enabling the voices of victims to be heard, starting with my own.  I allow the surging waves of thought and feeling to rush the gates and exit.  I try to bleed the bad with and without the use of leaches.  So much is stumbled upon rather than sought after.  Some things hound me; I run down the street with memory at my heels.  I must let the screams out or become them.  Today I talk, tomorrow is for others.  When I pour forth, I open the way for the rest.  I have become the megaphone rather than the cheerleader.  It is good to be of use.



Pollinate ideas.




Peace Time


I have been to the wars and through the wars

and now sit on the stoop and wonder;

will I learn to live here in the world of everyday

after having had to spend so much time running for cover.


Each time I return to what I believe is my home

I sit and rock trying to pour my soul back inside

from my hipflask where it was held for safekeeping.


I try not to spill a drop

for it is worse than shed blood and harder to rebuild.

My soul has grown pale from confinement and lack of sun,

but it still exists and for that I pat my back

and suck on my Lifesaver;


I could have done worse, was unable to do better.

I console myself with the knowledge

I never started the conflict just learned to survive it.