where the writers are


March 3






I turn the desk lamp into the eyes of God.  I put question after question to the construct of my childhood concept.  “Would you please explain?"  Or, "Exactly why did You do this, that, or the other thing?"  "Are You now or have You ever been a member of…?”  I put the pressure on; the beads of perspiration join, then trickle.  I have God in ‘the box.’  I will not relent.

“I don’t understand You," I say disappointedly, as if speaking to a troubling adolescent.  “You have so much potential if only You would apply Yourself.”  The icon shakes Its head slowly and deliberately; I shake my head, too.  So much time has passed and I am no closer to embrace.

“You don’t understand Me,” says God to me.  Dawn breaks; I uncuff this mythic creature. 

“You are not the one I am looking for.  You are free to go.”



New is neutral, not better or worse.




Stepping up



I look along the list of names,

look upon the sea of faces.

Are there any whose eyes I avoid?


I gaze across the landscape

are there any craters,

any pock marks, any divots.


I tick through my actions

those I’ve recently taken

checking for stubbles, glitches, snafus.


These combined facts and figures

create a portrait of my day;

I appraise the eyes, the hair, the teeth.

If I can smile at what I see

all is well if not

I begin the repair.