where the writers are


April 28





Being actually alive does not feel as good as I imagined the relief of being dead would feel and therefore I have anxiety and dread, or is it disappointment.  I feel like a failure when I am in the process of trying and I want to throw the pieces in the air and run.  Does this mean I’m weak or does it mean I am frightened?  Or is there some heavenly host of other reasons why my crêpe paper soul twists and turns in the breeze of the marketplace?  Some part of me was auctioned off and its removal left a psychic scar that even equanimity can not ease.  I am all things wonderful and yet there is this flaw, this toe tied thread which holds me back, holds me down with painful accurate precision.  I look for the knife with which to cut it all the while wondering if this will turn it into a toe tag or a price tag.






Police your self destruction








I do not believe in a universe that makes complete sense

I often find myself trapped

Because the things I pull into no longer feel firm.


I attempt K-turns in alleys far too narrow for the maneuver

I can’t back myself through the passages I plunged into willingly

My faith doesn’t compute in reverse and I find this disconcerting


I may walk into the face of fire

But find it impossible to turn my back on the flame

Today a one-way faith is fine

As long as I am moving forward.