Wednesday, July 20, 2016


Scorched desert,  dried cracked land,  pale skeletons the former plant life roll on by, pushed by a dry, lip cracking wind.

I slowly lurch along an uknown path.   Maybe I’m going further from help, but staying here is certain death.

How many have fallen on this hell floor.   How many have succumbed to it’s inferno after their bodies have given their last moisture to the immortal fire in the sky

I see them know.   Circling.   The direbird.  Harbingers of hopelessness.   This desert cannot take yourlife.   You must give it.

The Birds come when they know you have lost.  How many hours have I looked at the unchanging horizon.   No mountains,   no bumps, no changing,  just heat, and dust, and cracking skin, and dried blood.

Why do I keep moving.

They will say I gave up.   But what if I just chose to end the pain.

And so I bare my chest to the vultures above, and let them have me.

Monday, July 18, 2016


I'd say hi to you, if it wasn't a sin.

Natural blonde hair, pretty rare now days, especially with your mellow tan.  Not a tan you worked on in a booth; no one that came as a side effect of living.

Oh my. Those books you're reading. I've read them too.

Both of us, Alone on a Friday night in this cafe

Id say hi to you if the impulse wasn't born in sin.  

But oh my.  All black clothing.   Collared shirt. Just enough scruff. Almost enough to do it anyway.

What makes you a sin.

What makes this a sin

You don't look evil. But my nature makes you the same as stealing or idolatry.  

We are not promised to women but that doesn't matter.  It would be worse than cheating on a wife.

But then I see your smile,  it's not the smile of a heathen.  It's the smile of an angel.

 But if I say hi you will fall from heaven.

So if I stare at you Across the cafe, is that a sin?

Thursday, July 14, 2016

I am a rope

I am a rope.

Pulled, constricted, ratcheted, fraying.

I am a rope.

Made taut by the warring sides of my world locked in a ne’er ending tug of war.

I am a rope.

The gay says to date men, to mine own self be true.  And they pull with a sincere fervor.

The Mormon says to stay true to God, their grip is strengthened by the all mighty

The gay says a true god would want my Joy.

They Mormon says, that is the path to misery, that homosexuals are a construct of this world, non-existent in the next.

I am a rope, my fibers are fraying, tugged and stretched, never a rest.  The pulling escalates, the words become tinged with venom

The Mormon says your family loves you, and I believe them.  The gay says they hate you, should I believe them?

The gay says I deserve to have love.  The Mormon says, it’s cheap sex, not love.

I am a rope, stretched across a gulf of hatred.

I just want to leave.  I want to be done of this contest.   But I cannot.   Over the months, seasons and years, I hear their words, their hatred of the other, I am in the middle.  They fight for me, or is it the fight over me.  I don’t care anymore.  I am a rope.   A mere tool in their war. And I want to be set down.  But they won’t set me down.  Neither side will give an inch, and I cannot dismiss either.  My soul cannot choose, it cannot become one.  I was born this way, Mormon, I was born this way, gay.  My DNA, the very fibers of my being are both.   They cannot be expunged.   I fill the shame when I look toward the gay, I feel anger when I look toward God.

I am a rope. I have no rest.  I have no peace, if one side would just let me go, then I could rest.  If one side would let go for just a minute I could regroup.

But they are always there, fighting pulling, stretching constricting, telling me my existence is a somewhere along this line.

There is but one option left.  I am a rope.  I make a loop, I circle the base thirteen times.  Hoping someone will see what is happening.

I am a noose.   But without the tension, I have no power.  Will someone please let go?

They each pull tighter.  No one has interest in the middle ground.

And as they pull, the noose grows tighter, until I am hanged.

I dangle.  I sway in the breeze.  The gay and the Mormon look at each other across the expanse of my life.
For a moment, they lock eyes with compassion, sorrow, and acceptance.  Then they see how far the gap is, fear grips them.  They have never traversed that terrain before.

Uncomfortable they leave the swaying body. Look, over there is a new rope.   The uncertainty breaks.   They know what to do.  Hands grip with renewed fervor, if only they had pulled harder they might have saved me.

Are you the new rope?