On Black Canvas

black silk

My mind was blank
Then I drew you in
With running black paint
On black canvas.

Finished and framed
Between it hangs
My eyes and the world—
Both filter and fixation.

My mind was stained
When I drew you in
With running black paint
On black canvas,

Bleeding into forms
Never before seen.
These consecrated forms:
Your artful sacrilege.

Filling the Empty Chair

The roots, the old chair and the ruined wall

Sitting in a coffee shop. The wood floor—it’s earthy. It’s a forest of dirt and dead branches. The chair across from my wobbly table is empty. So I sing along with the music. I knew like three songs in a row, which I feel is cool because this coffee shop—it plays cool music, man, relevant music. I sang along to each one as I stared at a blank computer screen, pretending I had come here to be productive, to get something done. Singing along almost filled the empty chair. Almost convinced me that everyone else was convinced that I was okay with being here alone.

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An Electric Dance

The music surged
over us and through

becoming us
and us, it

and our bodies coursed with the song
converging to a crescendo
cascading over cliffs

and fog erupted from rock in thick, transparent streams
dissipated into sky

and the dawning light was alive.
It danced with us to the electric beat

as lasers streaked from the sun
as fists pumped in unison

and we jumped as one
loved as one

until all of us
–we were inseparable

united in a common energy
an electric dance

Don’t Act Your Age

I had a conversation with some friends last night. About getting older. About “acting your age.” See, I’m 26, and I don’t want to offend any of you who are older than me by saying that I feel soooo old, but there is a definite sense of aging, of leaving the invincibility of youth. But this awareness is mostly physical. In my spirit, I don’t feel old. I feel like me, Mike, and I’ll feel young forever. I’m convinced. Because I’ve talked to my friends who are in their thirties. I’ve talked to my parents and grandma. And apart from the physical aging, which none of us can escape, they all say they don’t “feel” their age.

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The Dance of Creativity


I created something once. A story. The words poured. Out from my heart as one thing, out from my mind as something else, and converged and swept through my veins, down my arms, to the tips of my fingers. And my fingers stepped against the keys in perfect rhythm, moving as one, in the most sensual of dances.

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Moon and Clouds





Moonlight is a dangerous thing when you’re with a girl.
It does what your heart cannot always do.
It shows you what your eyes cannot always see.

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The Image of Desire

Reed Flute Caves in Guilin, Guangxi Provine, China








We become what we desire.

For better.
For worse.

It’s not the surface desires that we become,
not really

They flit away on quiet breezes
dance among petals
defend us against ourselves
against the world
–right or wrong–
and all its accusations.  

and only secondly,
we are made in the image of subterranean desire
–those that dwell, and sometimes hide, in the underground caverns
the unknown depths
of the heart.

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