Monthly Archives: March 2017

Vrooom, Vroom

Vrooom, Vroom

Got my first copy of Photoshop User magazine. Found an article on how to create a motion blur. Followed the recipe and ta da! Doesn’t he look fast?

Posted by Luvin’ the light on 2010-06-23 02:45:53

Tagged: , Tuolumne City , #27/100 Photos=SPORT , Soap Box Derby



crisp & light, these look more like you tiao with sugar than churros!

Churros are also popularly referred to as the Spanish donuts or Spanish fritters. Churros have attained cult status as the national food symbol of Spain. Churros are also known by alternate names such as “Porras”, “Papitas”, and “Calentitos “. Churro is favored and savored throughout the Latin American countries, France, Portugal, United States, Morocco and Spanish speaking Caribbean Islands. The dish is a long and soft cake like pastry which is prepared from blended flour and fried in olive oil. The churro’s appear crispy golden brown from outside and are very soft to eat. The churros are enjoyed as desserts, breakfast or snacks. The churros continued to evolve outside Spain too. The original breadstick sized Churro is known as Churrito, and the big-sized stuffed churro is called Churrisimo. And a Churro cook is lovingly called Churrero.

History of Churro Recipes
It is believed that centuries ago Churros were developed by Spanish shepherds who lived in the high mountains. As, the mountain areas were totally cut from the outer world, and it was impossible for these shepherds to enjoy fresh baked goodies that came from bakeries. As a result the nomadic folk ended up coming up with delicious cake-like long strips of sweets, which they could easily prepare in frying pans over the open fire. This churros and churro recipes gained popularity due to their simplicity. The churros were introduced and popularized in South American countries and other Hispanic communities by the Spanish conquistadors.

But some historians suggest that churros were inspired by the You tiao which is a sort of fried stick prepared in the Northern China. The idea was captured by Portuguese sailors who visited the Ming dynasty and brought along with them the wisdom of culinary techniques imparted by the Chinese cooks. The Portuguese passed on their culinary knowledge to their Spanish counterparts. Spanish cooks modified these sticks by passing them through star cutter. The Portuguese have failed to grasp the exact technique of pulling the dough as the Chinese cooks did.

Ingredients Required for Preparing Churros
The churros are prepared using the blended flour and are fried in the olive oil. Normally churros are about the size of a breadstick but now jumbo sized churros are prepared and stuffed with goodies such as fruits, chocolate and Dulce de leche. The Spaniards like having their churros dipped in cinnamon sugar, hot chocolate or Dulce de leche.

Posted by leonghong_loo on 2014-08-13 08:47:59

Tagged: , churros , porras , papitas , calentitos , churrito

Healthy Recipe: White Pudding

Healthy Recipe: White Pudding

Milk pudding is creamy and silky and makes a luscious breakfast or an elegant gourmet recipes. To make a delicious milk pudding all you need are milk, sugar, gelatin, eggs and pure vanilla extract. This dish can be enjoyed on its own.

Posted by CatalinaLinkava on 2014-01-09 07:32:19

Tagged: , gourmet , recipes , healthy



1) Cook low and slow.
2) Brown the beef until it’s just done (until you think "that needs to cook a bit more" if you were eating it for tacos). Add in taco seasoning.
3) Add in what you like. I added green onion, olives, tomatoes, and cilantro.
4) I have no brand loyalty. Use smaller taco shells.
5) That pic looks sick. Spray the bottom of the cooking pan -or you’ll wish you had. Add a thin layer of something wet. I have the verde sauce and some salsa here. Just enough to cover the bottom.
6) Fill the tacos with what you want. I add a slice of green chili to each one.
7) Layer the tacos so they fit into each other. If you want the dish to come out very enchiladaish, stop here and then top.
8) I’m too cheap to not use everything, so I wedge the rest of the stuff in. Fill in the gaps with left over meat and peppers, but don’t overdo it. The most important thing is to make sure that YOU PUT THE SAUCE OVER ALL OF THE SHELLS. I used verde, but you can just use salsa or enchilada sauce (I don’t like enchilada sauce, hence the verde).
9) Top with as much cheese as you want. Cover with foil and bake slow until heated through.
* I’ll take a pic of the finished dish. I’m sure you’re on pins and needles.

This method is great for sourcream, chicken enchiladas. You can get a roasted chicken from the store and shred. Add sourcream, onion, seasoning and fill the taco shells. Top with verde and jack cheese and bake slow to heat.

Posted by Tequila&Donuts on 2008-07-08 22:56:07

Tagged: , enchiladas , recipe , no truffles

Cyclone Scene 6

Cyclone Scene 6

Poor coconut tree… Well, here are a number of poems, mostly based on the general theme of impermanence, to hopefully console you. If they end up making you feel worse, at least I tried.



The letter I sent you got some
Pago rain on it on my way to the
Mailbox. I remember you used
To love the rain; even when it
Soaked you, you’d say it was
Better than too long in the sun.
You may never see Pago again,
But when you hold the envelope
You’ll briefly be close one more
Time to what used to mean so
Much to you. Funny how things
We love often find a way back
To us, even if we barely notice.


Old roses, never delivered because
Of your about-face. I’ve tried just
Cutting you out of my mind and
Heart, like I’ve tried trashing these
Old roses, but that seems like an
Act of hate that would leave me
No better than when I started
And probably worse. It isn’t the
Symbol’s fault. These roses could
Go to no one else – they were
Chosen with you in mind. I keep
Them as a reminder of how it
Felt when I still thought you
Might enjoy them. Beauty needs
Its chance to bloom, and at least
These old roses hadtheirs.


Let the madman rant, it
Doesn’t matter. He knows
Better than to use sticks
And stones, and if words
Help him get something
Off his chest, that’s not
Against the law just yet.
In his madness, he thinks
He finds some kind of
Answer – only problem
Is, it’s just for him. May
He find the one who his
Ranting makes perfect
Sense to – then maybe
He’ll finally shut up.


Why did the Scots drag their
Bagpipes into battle with them?
To psych out the enemy with
Melody? My tastes may be
Strange in many ways, but the
Bagpipes never sounded to me
Like impending doom. They
Sound like the eternal longing
For a home far away, for people
Long gone, for a love never
Answered. Were the Scots
Appealing to their enemy’s
Sentimental side? Hey, don’t
Knock it if you haven’t tried it.

MOMZU (1920-1992)

Mom, as much as I miss you,
I’m glad you weren’t around
To watch me never grow up
In some ways and grow old
Before my time in others.
Mom, the better part of me
Comes from you. As for the
Rest, well… Kids just take it
All in before they can truly


Artists sometimes appear useless,
All talk and unrealistic dreaming,
No plan of action, thought for the
Future, no security, no visible
Means of survival, never mind
Success. Everything to excess,
Poster children for laziness, deaf
To any mention of responsibility,
Just plain sloppy, and all for no
Apparent reason other than ego.
Listen, artistic fulfillment better
Pay the bills, pal, or else you’ll
Follow your inspiration all the
Way into the gutter. Thanks for
The lecture, responds the artist,
Dusting off his besmirched self-
Worth. I take this risk knowing
Any inspiration can be dangerous,
But does anything feel worse than
To turn away from your own gift?


Feast before the food gets cold.
The guest of honor can’t make it
On time again, maybe can’t make
It at all, but he’d want us to enjoy
All that we’ve prepared. Besides,
There’s nothing like eating for the
Right reason. If you sing, dance
And celebrate each other, even
If the guest of honor isn’t present
In the flesh, he’s here in spirit.


There’s a misguided notion that
Death by complication is somehow
More humane than death by lethal
Injection. I beg to differ on that
Point. Death by complication is
Just like strangulation by vines,
A sign of indifference and neglect.
When complications start growing
All over your life, it’s useful to know
How to cut through the nonsense –
Complications only grow because
We feed them. We need instead
To nurture what’s simple, basic
And true, saving our sunshine for
What’s most important to us.


The lovers are discovered in my
Driveway. Oh Christ! Can’t they
Take it someplace where it’s dark,
Like a schoolhouse after hours?
The boy puts on a show of defiance,
Like I’m the trespasser on my own
Property, or a threat to his precious
Guinnevere, but no, I just need to
Remind them they’re in someone’s
Yard, not the public park. He says
They’ll move on, I leave them be.
I reflect that the psychology of
Love has to do with leaving home,
Just as I too so long ago stole my
First kiss somewhere mom and
Dad weren’t watching.


Connection getting warmer,
Components of joy making
Themselves known. Feels
Like home, all anticipation.
Why the delay, immigration?
Check me, review me, clear
Me for entry into your country
That’s part of me too. Open
My baggage, see what I carry
Around. Does my package
Contain a bomb? Are you
Joking? Care to shake it? In
A manner of speaking, yes.
Let me in, immigration, you
Won’t regret it.


Wounded lion, caged for all our
Safety, musn’t let it escape. It’s
Shown it’s got a mind of its own,
Especially when hungry. This lion,
He’s a cunning one, charms the
Naïve with fun and laughter before
Chewing on their heads. Caged
Lion, nursing his resentment at a
Fate he feels he doesn’t deserve.
We all eat, my diet’s just different.
Why can’t we just kill it? That sad
Look he gives us, like all I ever
Wanted was to be alive and free,
A feeling even a captor must in
Some way understand full well.
Take that one last dignity away
From me and you know you’re
Really taking if from yourself.


Intermission from the sadness
So you all can go to the snack
Bar for popcorn and soda.
Nothing sad for 15 minutes.
Isn’t it a nice day? Bright but
Just enough clouds to make it
Comfortable outside. Hey, I
Got some good news and I’m
Still buzzing from it. The long
Persistence when all seemed
Hopeless wasn’t in vain – faith
Pays off given time. It’s mostly
The truth in the news lately.
People complain as usual, but
At least they’ve got a sense of
Humor too. You can get off that
Bad path anytime you like – as
Nancy Reagan said, just say no.
The car’s got problems, but at
Least it’s moving. Life isn’t all
Sadness, no way… Ok, our 15
Minutes are up, please return
To your seats and we’ll resume
Our regular program of gloom.


Those of us in love’s army, we’re
Blessed with needy weaponry.
Like knights on a crusade we
Invade bringing salvation, not
Just destruction. Burning with
Holy fire, we scour sacred ground
So sacred life can rise anew. We
Give you ground zero, now build
A glorious future, the one you
Envisioned when you petitioned
The heavens for change. Having
Tried peaceful means, you know
This is really what was needed.
Best to believe it’s all for the
Good, as you put out the flames
And mop up the blood. Should
You reward our heroism with
Haughty ideals of pacifism, what
An insult to us risking our lives
Just so you can continue to live
And love at your liberty, long as
You’re on the winning side.


Poor dumb bugger, won’t get
To act like a loser on the corner
At night for awhile. Poor dumb
Bugger, mind fully focused on a
Hollywood sex icon, dreaming
Of fingers on skin. Man, it’s sweet
In the middle of the street till he
Wakes up in an ambulance cause
He hadn’t noticed the bus he was
Walking into. Lust-blinded bugger,
Deaf too, never heard the BAM
Like the Babe hit a home run as
He spun through time and space
And landed in a ditch, all the
While immersed in his crimson
Visions of Pamela Anderson’s
Unattainable Hollywood tongue.
Poor dumb bugger, flying on pain
Killers now, mumbling in the
Ambulance, man, if this is what
It’s like just thinking of Pamela
Anderson, I’m afraid real romance
Might be too intense for me.


I was in the smokers’ corner,
Looking at all the cigarette
Butts that won’t decompose,
Thinking, whoa, too bad love
Can’t be like that, this used
Dirty thing that just won’t
Come apart, even in a crisis,
Even in a hurricane, unlike
Your expertly laid plans,
Homes and marriages. Even
In a flood, the butt just floats
Out to sea. In the belly of a
Whale, it gets barfed out in
Some far distant land. Have
Commitment, will travel.
A few moments’ enjoyment
Produces such an enduring
Symbol. I look at the butt
And wonder what we let go
Up in smoke. Hey wait, isn’t
That your shade of lipstick?


Vulture is untroubled by a long
Wait, follows no schedule. He
Knows there are weak as sure
As there are strong, and the
Strong always feed first while
The weak eventually fall prey
To themselves. Could be ill
Fate, maybe pride instead of
Common sense – nothing new
Under the sun – but in the end
There’s just a mess he helps
Nature clean up. Cannibals
Might take it personally, but
Not the airborne refuse truck.
It’s just community service,
A civic duty to save you paying
A mortuary. Vulture circling,
Singing aloha oe.


Kona to Oakland direct, culture
Shock like changing channels.
California, home to the dream
Industry, the locals take it so
Seriously. My first meal on the
Mainland might prove my last
Supper in Mel’s. You say you
Taught school in this section
Of Oakland for twenty years,
And you’re remembered but
Not very fondly. Unbelievably
Flawed education system for
Such an affluent state, and
You’re still that system’s public
Face. Too many cops yawning,
Sipping coffee, eating burgers
In Mel’s for your old pupils to
Shoot us when we enter, but
We’ll get shot, you’re certain,
As soon as we walk out – by
The cops. Or by that waitress,
Unless our tip lives up to her
Expectations – see how she
Labors to be nice – can’t be
Easy with a customer entirely
Convinced they’re in for a
Bullet any minute. In view of
All this, I think I’ll let you pay.
Not especially classy of me,
Can’t argue, but kindly chalk
It up to culture shock.


Clearly, everyone loves Robin, but
It’s Tiburon they all despise. Rich
Gated community by the sea in
Marin County. Home to walking
Stereotypes of excess wealth off
Mediocrity, America’s appalling
Collective tastes – what was Robin
Doing there anyway? Surely such
A dear person full of heart, soul
And love would have been just as
Discomforted by Tiburon as the
Rest of us (who can’t get in). So
Robin’s suicide must have been
His one last comic masterstroke –
Want to be on the map, Tiburon?
Ok, I’ll put you there, pal. You’re
The poster community for deeply
Seated celebrity dysfunction –
Beware collective America, even
The seemingly most solid among
Us can carry demons that slowly
Eat away at us from inside. Honor
Robin’s memory – make someone
Smile or laugh.


Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth,
Heart for a heart, life for a life.
You hurt me and you’ll regret it.
Eye for an eye in the streets
Of Missouri, where the attitude
Of the cops has finally caught
Up with them. Eye for an eye
Is a taste of your own medicine,
And I’ll bet you don’t like it
At all. Eye for an eye in Israel,
Both sides feeling grievously
Offended, violated, vengeful.
Eye for an eye is the playground
Of the devil. It was designed
To end conflict to a by restoring
Balance, but these days we don’t
Just take what we need (or think
We need), we take everything.
So keep your eye, I will not be
Satisfied with less than your
Head. You hurt me and you’ll
Regret it. There is a solution,
One clearly indicated by those
Deeply held beliefs you so
Loudly trumpet, but if you still
Don’t want it, insist it doesn’t
Apply, what’s the point of even
Giving you a choice?


Who’s the new Mr. Magic?
The one who’ll solve all your
Problems, ease all your
Worries with his warm smile,
Reassuring words, gentle
Probing touch, etc? Then
He’ll pull the magic trick
Of disappearing after he’s
Gotten what he wants. You
Must find particular delight
In magic shows. Can you still
Count how many Mr. Magics
Have made you fall for their


Trying to plan my life with the
Precision of a military campaign,
Like the Nazis looking at weak,
Tired old Europe and thinking,
Now is the time we consolidate.
Nice try, guys, thank God the
USA came to the rescue. Trying
To dictate that my heart follow
Rules, like math and science do,
Serve more as a review board
Than a living, breathing part of
Life in all its flaws, confusions,
Contradictions, losses and gains.
Looks good on paper, but pen
And ink can’t preserve what’s
Fleeting, what’s changing even
As you read this. What remains
Constant is as much a mystery
As what won’t stay – both quite
Impossible to control. We’re
All gamblers analyzing our bets,
Surfers looking at big waves,
Nomads risking a desert crossing,
Singers trying to find someone
We have a harmony with. Never
A guarantee, but always the
Freedom to do it our way.


The only tales worth telling end
Happily, otherwise our literary
Canon would be an endless
Chronicle of life’s thousands of
Defeats. By all accounts, the tale
Between you and me concluded
In quiet disaster, consisting of
Nothing either of us would care
To repeat. Seen differently, the
Tale could simply have reached
Its crossroads and could go
Either way – nowhere at all or
Towards unexpected resolving
Of the conflicts, the return of
Something good that was there
All along but first had to go
Through the fire. Good, after all,
Has more faces than the ones
We immediately recognize, and
What is heroism if not hard
Earned self-realization? I will
Never see myself as anyone’s
Hero, but I’d still like to survive
To see however and whoever
With my tale ends happily.


When I die, just throw me in the
Cargo hold on the flight to Samoa.
Put me in with the mail and the
Suitcases. If I make the plane too
Overweight, leave behind some
Standbys who are too heavy. They
Can come later but for now make
Me your highest priority. Hawaiian
Air, put me on k-fare, k as in kill
You if you can’t get me home. I’ll
Become a ghost, living in your
Restroom mirrors, scaring small
Children looking out the window,
Who’ll see the very angry face of
A Samoan you couldn’t find room
For, even in the cargo hold. Just
Get me back home to my village
And faalavelave and faifeau and
Faipule, to all my aiga crying as
Much as they eat, and on every
Samoa flight my soul will be right
Beside you, flying shotgun to
Protect you from bad spirits in
The air who can’t fly to Heaven
Even on standby. I’ll make all
Your passengers so happy and
Loving of Hawaiian Air, even
With your small seats and tiny
Joke meals. That’s an eternity
Of service in return for you
Just finding enough room for
Me to come home in your cargo
Hold with the mail and suitcases.


I wish I could say something
Positive, but the most positive
Thing I can say is I wish I could
Say something positive. I wish
I could make a difference, but
The only thing I can think of
That might make a difference
Is to say I wish I could. Other
Than that, I don’t know what
To think or what to say. One
Day, when things have come
Full circle, you’ll understand.


Kind of useless to hurt if there’s
No possibility the hurt will turn
To joy. That’s like going into
Battle indifferent about winning.
This is not to imply you pick and
Choose how and when you hurt.
Usually it’s just there, indicating
The persistence of something
That seems impossible. Who’s
Making it impossible? We are.
Our reasons take precedence.
Maybe the hurt doesn’t want
Subjugation, revenge, or even
Joy as compensation earned.
It simply insists it deserves an
Answer, all the while knowing
It may never get one.


What would Elvis do? He advised
Us, don’t be cruel. By implication
(Even if I’m stretching it), he meant
Watch out what you identify with,
be careful who you let in your life,
Have respect for all things and all
People, even the people who’ve
Made you feel disposable. Relax,
Hang loose, rock a little. Cool is
The rule, cold gets old fast, and
When you’re hot, you’re hot. And
Above all else, remember, unless
It’s necessary beyond the shadow
Of a doubt, don’t be cruel.


Songbird, do you know that
Song about reading the signs?
I read them carefully, perhaps
Too carefully, and I wish I could
Take them only as seriously as
A songbird would. But I move
Responsibly through road, sea
And sky, or try to, and I know
That one ignores the signs
At one’s own peril. The peril
Of openness is that someone
Can make you feel like nothing,
While the peril of closedness
Is going numb and not feeling
Much of anything anymore.
Your life must have its own
Complications, songbird, but
I like how you’re singing away
Again for no better reason than
Another morning.


Flow with the healing sea
Where life began, where life
Sustains. Her tides carry
Life, even to the land. We
Started from the sea, it’s
Always inside us. Dive into
The healing sea, let its
Waves wash away the ages
Make you new, alive again.
Protect the healing sea as
It holds the sky at bay,
Shields us from the sun.
Help the healing sea keep
A fragile planet in balance.


Overdrawn on credit from the
Generous bank of nature, take
More than you can pay for and
There’s going to be forclosure.
Hide trash under the carpet
Of the planet’s furthest corners –
No wonder you live in a dump
Grown foul and ever warmer.
Blow smoke in the sky’s face,
Run a sewer into the sea, choke
The land on fast food bones,
And cut down all the trees. It’s
Like we’re the new dinosaurs,
Just thinking of ourselves, and
Nature needs to stop us turning
Heaven into hell. We’ll hire a
Team of scientists to save us
All some shade, but here comes
The economist saying profits
Must be made. What good’s a
Corporation when your credit’s
Turned to crud, and what good’s
A Mercedes when it has to run
On blood? Nothing in the kitchen
Now, except the kitchen sink.
It’s like we’re the new dinosaurs,
We soon will be extinct.


Seriously unserious, sincerely
Insincere – oh for something
Definite like granite, dauntless,
Definition in a world of ambiguity.
I’m breathing, that’s clear enough,
And in my dreams I have wings
But when I wake I have aches,
And not just in the body. How
Many of us just sleepwalk through
Our day, the better part of us
Unformed, unfinished, unspoken?
What a shame to break off
The engagement of our senses.
Would you mind if I disrupt
Your structured existence
Without even trying?


Trash shows where you’re at.
Among the upsides, manifest
Both here and stateside, one
Downside of this Polynesian/
Caucasian conflation is trash.
Trash signifies affluence, as in
We’ve got money to spend on
Candy, chips, soda, and saimin –
All this shit, ironically, makes
You constipated. Even if these
Indicators of our first world
Tastes make our movements
Somewhat less freer than
Previously, we’re still at liberty
Under the stars and stripes to
Sully our streets with rubbish
Like thoughtless dogs just
Pooping wherever. I ask you,
What kind of progress is this?


I wish you knew me better as a
Person than as an idea. It’s nice
To be thought about, but I’d
Rather be talked to. As an idea,
I’m little more than a reflection
Of your own hopes and fears,
More projection than human.
Impressions are one thing, but
Is it right or fair to think you
Understand someone based
Solely on how you’ve created
Them in your head? When it
Comes to ideas, we’re puppet
Masters of our thoughts. Still,
When you think you can just
Pull the right strings to make
Something happen, and instead
The puppet rebels like a bronco
Sending a cowboy flying, your
Ideas have just hit a proverbial
Fan. So no, I can’t be anyone’s
Puppet, powerless without
Considerate direction, but if
You’d just ease your grip on
What you think are my strings,
I’d wager I could be something
You’d like even better.


Postcard from the road
Saying lawyers are a load
Unto themselves, but if it
Takes a judge’s gavel to
Bring this family back
Together, that’s better
Than nothing. He said,
She said, deposition
Tango, not so much
A song as an excuse
For a solo.


I remember so much of my
Past, it jus seems so long ago,
And seeing it up close again
The impression is how little
Any of it’s changed. I was
Right about it the first time –
I connect with it in a different
Way now. It was my launching
Pad to somewhere very, very
Different. But I never would
Have gotten there had I not
Started from here. I am the
Continuity between the two.
Not sure how to handle that –
It’ll have to just handle itself.


Religion, thank God, is not
Mexican politics – simply a
Matter of who’s got the
Weapons. If you need to
Establish an Islamic state,
I have no objection – it’s
Shooting people I object
To. If you can’t convince
Me with the hope your
Religion will bring to the
World, with its solutions
For mankind, you might
As well just save your
Breath and shoot me
Before I shoot you.


Partner with whom compromise
Is no cause for resentment by
Either of us. Partner who’s been
Around the block, but is still well
Aware of how life is meant to be
More than just going around the
Block endlessly. Partner who
Understands why partnership
Should not be just an end unto
Itself, but also knows the value
Of getting it right. Partner who
Wants to get it right. Partner
Who wants to be my partner,
End of discussion. That’s the
Only kind of partner I’d give up
My freedom for. These may be
My famous last words, but I’ve
Learned the hard way they’re
The right ones, at least for me.


Looking at our story like it’s
A drama I’m not even part of,
Like something on TV or in a
Book. You can see with better
Accuracy given distance from
Personal involvement, your
Personal need to identify or
Deny. Look dispassionately,
See the two clowns bungling
It over and over, incapable of
Anything but farce. In a sense,
They’re quite a brilliant pair,
Reliable for incredible laughs
If you’re not the one it’s
Happening to. Clowning, an
Exaggeration of our human
Condition – how can you not
Sympathize when they want
So badly to get something
Right that without fail they
Always get it wrong? Isn’t
That every one of us, every
Day, only without makeup?


Not very graceful, and no matter
What I do, it’ll look dirty, down
In the mud again. Mud is a mood,
Gets you stuck regardless of how
Hard you spin your wheels – mud
Goes flying, gets anyone too close
Soiled too, while you just get mired
Ever deeper. Mud, unholy marriage
Between water and earth, natural
Fluidity and practicality fused in
Hell’s Laboratory of Unhappiness
To be neither practical nor fluid.
Actually, mud can in fact be very
Practical for impeding a pursuer,
A fluid solution to being caught
Up with. If you’d rather not be
Understood, mud’s the answer.
Roll in it enough and it’s sure to
Obscure as much about yourself
That you’d prefer not to face as
You’d care to bury. You can never
Tell another’s true colors when
They’re all covered in mud. Even
If mud hasn’t compromised your
Sight for so long that now every
Single thing you see looks in
Some way or other soiled.


Call me moth, a foolish
Human trying time and
And time again to touch
The light with nothing to
Shield me. That’s why
Sometimes I look like
Toast and feel like crumbs,
But for some reason or
Other, I’m still here talking
To you. Maybe I’m here
Just for you to compare –
So try these comparisons…
You’re my light and I want
To become one with you,
But the sacrifice of a moth
Brings the light no honor –
What honor is destructive
Desire? A moth’s one
Chance at fulfillment is
To discover his own light.
Only with a light of his own
Is there any possibility he
And his love can shine as
One. Sadly, your average
Moth just goes for the
Most obvious, and would
Not be here talking to you.


Endless ways to twist the tale,
For even when it seems like
They’ve come to an abrupt
Conclusion, tales continue
To evolve, often in ways
You’d never have imagined.
In its simplest beginnings,
Our tale starts with someone
Doing the reaching out and
Someone doing the shutting
Out. And that was that, or so
It seemed, but like many tales
With something more to it
Still struggling to resolve, this
One just continues to twist.


Heart pieces, broken shards,
Long buried in shifting sands.
Unmistakable, unmistakably
Incomplete, only part of the
Picture. Hinting at a grander
Construction if you’re handy
Enough with the glue. If you
Take the time to understand
What goes where, matching
The heart pieces around the
Gaps that remain, patching
The cracks. They won’t hold
Water, but at least it’s a start.
As Etta James sings “At Last,”
Little heart pieces chime in,
”Archaeology has arrived
To save us.”


Mark once looked in the mirror
And saw John, the guy millions
Of girls screamed for. John proved you
Don’t need muscle or movie
Star looks to conquer with talent
And wit, attitude, a vision
Of a swingin’ new world where
Even guys with hair like girls
Could rule. Now Mark looks in the
Mirror and sees Holden Cufield,
Who intuits the truth about
Everything, and has opinions
About putting phonies in their
Place – imposters who peddle
Baloney, then could care less
About ruining the illusion,
Opening the door to dreams
And then shutting it again
Playing house husband instead of
Making millions of girls want to
Twist and shout with you? Let
Me take you down before I
Go there too. What will it take
To reunite the Beatles?
Three more bullets.

(Note: Read about John Lennon, Mark David Chapman, and "The Catcher In The Rye" on Wikipedia.)


It’s madness from the typical
Viewpoint, like knocking on a
Door where you’ve already
Been told go away. It meets
Einstein’s criteria of madness,
Like hoping a situation that’s
Always gone badly will
Somehow still end happily.
It’s madness to endlessly
Revisit the scene of a loss
Like a dog beside the grave
Of its master. It’s madness
A jury might not accept as
An excuse, the solution
Being so obvious. It may be
Madness, but within that
Madness a promise, kept
When together, kept when
Apart. It’s madness from
The typical viewpoint, but
From another, the only way
To preserve one’s sanity.


Can you see how I might
Have gotten the impression
I don’t mean anything to
You? Can you see what this
Hesitation has always been
About? Am I supposed to
Just embrace everything
You’ve done as if it’s all ok
Or it never happened? In
Truth, I would once again
Put all my misgivings aside
And try to accept you as
You are if I knew this was
What you want. But can
You see how I might have
Gotten the impression
That what you want is
Something else entirely
That has nothing to do
With me?


With a real artist you know
There’s always something
More than just entertainment
Going on. I don’t claim to be
An artist – in fact I’m lucky if
I can even entertain you for
A few minutes. It’s no longer
About trying to impress. I just
Keep howling because when
A dog doesn’t know what else
To do, that’s its message to
The moon and stars. Feeling
Every bit as foolish as I must
Look, I just keep sending out
This SOS long after the ship
Has gone down because I
Simply can’t bring myself to
Send out for pizza. Thanks
To disaster befalling my dear
Good ship, I’ve found a voice
To make it sound probably
Far grander than it ever
Really was, but in truth I’d
Still trade this new voice for
My old ship anytime.


Cricket, land on my page and
Make yourself at home. I don’t
Need to squash you to assert
My superiority, and as long as
You don’t bite me, we can have
A little party. I say little because
All I’ve got’s a little ink for us
To play around with. Shall we
Make tattoos? Your skin looks
Too thin for me to sketch on,
And you’re too tiny to try your
Artistry on me, but we can
Always write a poem. Great!
I can blame this one on you.


Energy, your waywardness
Brings me sadness. It’s not
That you can’t control
Yourself, it’s that you’re
Too easily led. You jump
At every opportunity like
A trained seal or monkey.
Energy, you’ve gone so
Wrong for so long it’s
Making me curious what
It would be like if you went
Right for once in your life.


We are simply humans, but
We want to be glorious like
We see in magazines and
Movies. We imagine that’s
Us up there on the screen.
Deep down we know it’s
All illusion, and that glory
Won’t’ keep you warm at
Night, but in our shallow
End we’ll take the glitz
Over the shits, and our
Innate simplicity can go
Simplify itself elsewhere.


You must have odd DNA
To be crawling around my
Page, and not be home
Asleep like other crickets.
Flying into my light,
Burning your feet.
Watching me write as if
I’m the most interesting
Thing in your cricket
World tonight. Weirdo,
I’m not sure you’ll get to
Reproduce, or if you’d
Even want to. Neither
You nor I need the
Crickets of tomorrow
Crawling on my page
Like you, unless they
Intend to memorize
My verses for future
Generations of crickets.


I took a day to myself, gave
Responsibility a break, and
Slept through most of it.
Tried to do some things
Outside, but it rained, so I
Ended up doing not much
Of anything except a lot of
Thinking. Now it feels like
A lost day. I could have
Done something that
Needs to be done, said
Something that needs to
Be said, clarified what’s
Still unclear, maybe
Reassured someone in
Doubt, maybe fixed
Something broken. So
Many ways to make at
Least a small difference.
But occasionally we all
Need a day when we do
Nothing except sit still
And see what the day
Does for us.


Rainfall is flushing out the
Gutters, ferrying garbage
From here to the sea. Let
The dolphins deal with it.
Let turtles savor its taste.
Water doesn’t solve our
Garbage problem, only
Shifts it. Shifting is a skill,
Substituting, re-arranging
To create the appearance
Everything’s clean, it’s all
Legit. Just cause nature
Does it for us sometimes
Doesn’t make it any less
Of a deception. Shifting
Problems aside won’t
Solve them –they will
Appear again, whether
It be elsewhere, or in a
Mask, or in your children,
Or in your confession, or
Right in your face saying
Honey, I’m home to roost.


There must be a point to
All of this, it’s just slow in
Revealing itself, and for
Our part we have to go
Through some changes,
Perhaps many changes
Before we can even
Catch a glimpse of the
Point, like Alice saw the
Rabbit when she least
Expected it. When all
Seems pointless, I tell
Myself Heaven does
Not make cruel jokes,
Therefore there must
Be a point to all of this.


Unwelcome, barely tolerated,
Familiar intruder, overstayer
Of the heart. The truth must
Be faced, and if eyes were
A firing squad, I’d be pushing
Up daises. How did I earn my
Exile to these cold corners?
I might have made something
Loving sound hateful, made
Something extraordinary
Sound worthless, made a
Gift from God sound like an
Albatross. I say it was pain
Speaking, but given a voice,
Pain can so easily let out
Something nasty. The world
Is nasty enough already –
Anyone who makes it more
So deserves to be exiled.


Myth of the Phoenix that rises
From its own ashes. It takes
Some presumptuousness for
Me to compare myself to an
Immortal bird, I know, so
Let’s say instead I’m simply
Inspired by it. Most males
Would take a football player,
Soldier, singer or president
As a role model, I know, so
Forgive for being a freak,
But I choose the Phoenix.
Its story speaks of loss and
Rising above it. I’ve done
My share of going down in
Flames, often as a result of
Believing some myth about
Love. It’s not love’s fault
Humans create myths
About it. Humans make up
Myths about all kinds of
Things, including each other.
I don’t mind you making up
Myths about me, as long as
They’re the kind that inspire
Someone in a good way, but
If you really want to help me
Rse up, try and see the truth
And understand it. First stop,
My dear, is the mirror.


A lot of things in life are
Not quite fair. Fairness
Can be like water – it
Finds its own depth,
Finds its own form.
We suit the character
Of fairness to the
Situation, to ourselves.
Something unfair can
Continue for a long
Time, but have you
Ever seen an
Imbalanced plane
Achieve takeoff or
Land safely?


Shop around, there’s always
A better deal elsewhere,
And the sensible approach
Is never fix anything, just
Replace it. Purchases exist
To serve and please, not to
Feel or think on their own,
And if they don’t work,
Plenty more where they
Came from. Shop around,
Even if all that’s on sale is
Crap with no warranty.
Oh, and since you’ll be
Shopping around the rest
Of your life, better be
Careful with your credit.


I’m really crap at dancing but
Maybe there’s a little song I
Can do to make someone
Feel good a few moments.
My preoccupations sometime
Prove useful and other times
Prove fatal. I try to make
Everything sound like the
Truth, which is sometimes
Needed and other times
Desperately avoided. Do I
Sound like I really know the
Truth? Do I look like I have
A third eye? But as long as
It sounds right, who’s any
Wiser? I just do my usual
Song and dance because
I’m too impatient to wait
Until Christmas for gifts
To be given and received.


Ok, you be boss since
I’m just a fuckup who
Can’t get anything right
To save his life. Wait,
I take that back, I get
Lots of things right,
Just never with you.
So you be boss, you
Be in charge. I’m liberal
And progressive to a
Sufficient extent that
My ego won’t get all
Bent out of shape.
Hey, whatever works.
Don’t tell me you can’t
Handle being boss –
Haven’t you heard of
Equal opportunity?


Oh woe is me, poor confused
Me, poor neglected me, poor
Heartbroken me, poor offended
Me, poor disgusted me, poor
Horrified me, poor naïve me,
Poor weak me, poor discarded
Me, poor unsatisfying me, poor
Unchosen me, poor substandard
Me, poor stubborn me, poor
Indulgent me, poor morally-
Suspect me, poor controversial
Me, poor conceited me, poor
Remembered-unfondly me,
Poor unfairly judged me, poor
Dishonorably treated me,
Poor lousy-poetry me, poor
Medicare-beckoning me, poor
One-big-soft-spot me, poor
Me, poor passive-aggressive
Me – Jeez, it just goes on
And on until you finally
Have to admit it sure takes
A lot of gas to get nowhere.


Baw baw black sheep,
That’s me. I never felt
Denied by the world,
I felt denied by those
Who want it all for
Themselves, those
Who feel they know
This world so well
They can tell who or
What doesn’t belong.
Are they emissaries
Of the one who made
Our world, or is their
So-called holiness
Really just an excuse
To claim more than
They’ve been given?


I got a degree! I got a degree!
Now I’m picking up rubbish
For ASCC. PhDs and janitors
Are equal today, thanks ASG.
PhDs get a taste of ladder-
Bottom labor, just to instill
A better appreciation of such
Vital services, although you
Know they’re quite familiar
With dirtywork of a different
Sort already. But hey, it’s a
Democracy, so let’s get all
Democratic and clean the
Campus. And since we’re all
Switching professions like
Malas switch gender, what
I’d really like to see is the
Janitors run this college and
Our admins go clean toilets.
I have faith the janitors can
Do a better job setting policy,
And if WASC is shocked by
This and shouts ‘sanction’ or
Farts out some other knee-
Jerk reaction, hey, we don’t
Dictate their janitorial flow
Chart so would they kindly
Keep their nose out of ours.


On Valentines Day while the
Lovers get up to whatever
They please, I propose a toast
To the unloved and alone.
The lovers have it covered,
Forget them. It’s the ones
Who’ll spend the day without
Someone special that we
Should remember. In your
Prayers, ask the one whose
Love endures for always to
Smile on those who, for
Whatever reason, live as if
Love just isn’t an option.
There’s an underside to the
Romance of Valentines Day –
Alone with no hope in sight.
Drink a toast to them, even
If they can’t see or hear it,
Ask that somehow, some
Way, their stories can still
End happily. We haven’t
Any God-given right to find
Someone we naturally want
To take care of, who’ll take
Care of us in return, but if
You’re lucky enough to be
With someone such as this
On Valentines Day, is there
Any further proof of God’s
Grace you could ask for?


So much for my best laid
Plans to put the yard in
Order before I take off
For Hawaii. Raining with
No sign of it letting up.
I can take the rain but
I doubt the lawnmower
Is in a Gene Kelley mood.
The yard may have to wait,
May look like a jungle by
The time I get to it, may
Feel neglected and I
Can’t blame it. Yard, I’m
Sorry I don’t give you the
Attention you deserve.
If I had my way, I’d take
Care of you 24/7. So
Just celebrate, get
Drunk on the rain and
Later I’ll bring you some
Asprin along with my


Look away, look down, look
Within – and look and look and
Look within. I can really be
Kind of an ostrich. That which
Isn’t acknowledged doesn’t
Exist, at least for the moment.
But if it matters enough in the
First place for its head to be
In the sand, the ostrich isn’t
Fooling anyone – something’s
Up. Something’s wrong. The
Outside world remains the
Same but his inner world is
Losing its gravity – nothing
Will stay in place. Ostrich
Thinks, at least I can anchor
My head, before I too fly off
The earth into the void, or
Heaven, or other planets, or
Wherever living beings go
When severed from the ties
They hold dear. Is this really
Happening, or does thinking
It so make it so? No way to tell
When you can’t risk a look.


It’s always cause to smile when
Shadows of the mind vanish in
The sunlight. Far preferable to
Suspicions being confirmed.
When you’re not sure what to
Assume, shadows of the mind
Take many shapes, some more
Benign than others. While I’m
Not cruel, sometimes it seems
Like something very cruel has
Taken root, made possible
Partially by uncertainty and
Partially by shadows posed in
Worst case scenarios. Shadows
Have minds of their own, and
Fear they haven’t got enough
Substance, enough form, to
Survive in the sunlight. So they
Take the worst of what’s real
And dress it in the scandalous
Colors of what isn’t. Get to
Know the shadows and the
Sunlight – you’ll live with both
Till that happy day when you
Have it made in the shade.


The circus is some kind of
Haven for those who prefer
The freak show to the
Corporation. Did the circus
Say it was thinking of
Staying in your town for
Another season? Year of
The Horse, it might have
Happened. Year of the
Sheep, forget it, no way.
Selfishness has its own
Shadow, self-protection
From the wolves out there,
Stampeding elephants,
Tigers who won’t take no
For an answer. Stay put
Too long and they begin
To question the novelty –
Move on or lose your
Mystery. One last smile
From your own dedicated
Fool, the clown famous
For taking the ridiculous
To another level. Will the
Circus ever return? Wiser
To assume never, that way
It can forever surprise.


I will think this, I will think
That. I will feel this, I will
Feel that. I will regret this,
I won’t regret that. At the
End of the day it’s about
Doing the right thing. I try
To do the right thing when
I have a clue what the right
Thing is. It’s not the worst
News, it’s not the best
News. It’s about what’s
Still there, good or bad,
Right or wrong, at the
End of the day. Trying to
Do the right thing, and
Hoping I’m not mIstaken.


Player, I wish you’d give me
Something I can trust, but
You give me the opposite.
Player, they’re holding you
Up as some kind of symbol
Of what’s good and right –
What an irony. Player, if
Sincerity is really spoken for
By deed, then what do your
Own deeds say about you?
Simply that you consider
Some more worthy of your
Sincerity than others.


Does expressing sadness pave
The way for happiness? If we
All sing the blues, do we feel
Better knowing none of us is
Really alone, feeling solidarity
In suffering with all the other
Badly screwed up hearts to our
Community? Social services,
You must rescue me, it’s my tax
Dollars paying your salary. A
Noted authority has diagnosed
Me with possessive rejection
Syndrome, a decreasingly rare
Condition that renders grown
Men helpless as useless infants
Desperate for an emotional tit
To satiate a deficient sense of
Legitimacy. I say there’s nothing
I can do knowing full well the
Difference between what I can
Do and what I’m willing to do.
Don’t ask me to swallow my
Pride – my digestive allergies
Would process that more as
Explosion than nutrition.


Our social rules are sometimes
More felt than clearly defined.
We could be completely moral,
Like something out of the Bible,
Or island blunt, as in, whatever
Works till something that works
Better comes along. Our salad
Combines improvisation with
Age old wisdom and select
Interpretation, mixed to taste.
We are many things from one
Moment to another. This may
Be natural harmony, or pure
Self-indulgence, or scheming
Animosity, or saintly self-
Denial depending on our
Mood and the surf conditions.
I’m not unpredictable, just
Ready for anything. You can
Usually predict I like feeling
I’m on the road to something
Right, but you know how
Potholes spring up overnight.


How do you express that you
Can live with the flaws in life
Without it sound like you’re
Endorsing the flaws in life?
How do you say it’s ok to
Make mistakes without it
Sounding like you’re making
A mistake by saying that?
How do you say you could
Forgive without it sounding
Like you’re the one who
Needs to be forgiven? How
Dare you usurp the work of


Ancient Rome wasn’t all
Buggery, slavery, gladiators
And senseless conquest.
No, Ancient Rome was also
The fountainhead of modern
Philosophy, ideas about the
Self and society that still
Resonate today. Ancient
Rome was brutal, but
Produced beautiful art
When it wasn’t feeding
Christians to its lions.
Ancient Rome was raped
By Barbarians after falling
Prey to corruption and
Decadence, its leaders
Too drunk, its heroes too
Stymied by STDs to do
Anything. Nero played
Fiddle while half his city
Burned to the ground,
Why are all our human
Pinnacles followed by
Parties where we tear
Down what we worked
So hard to build?


Potholes in ancient Rome when
The tax collection got lax. Fried
Rice in ancient China. Baked
Bananas in old Samoa to fuel
Our choo-hoos. Subterfuge in
Medival Europre, always that
King vs. commoner thing, the
Final flowering of which was
The Mafia. Scrawlings on
Rocks and in caves from a
Millienia ago – the beginnings
Of art and literature. Random
As things seem, seen in the
Long run there’s always a
Certain consistency. If you
Feel I lack consistency, take
A historical perspective.


There you are, all over my past
But still we’re no closer than we
Were seven years ago. Seven
Years is a long time to not get
Along – our disagreements
Must run deep. What was it
Again that we disagee on? Is
It an honor thing? Feel you
Weren’t treated honorably in
Accordance with your own
Spotlessly honorable way of
Treating others? It’s up to you
If you want to cast me as one
Of the villians in your tale –
By now you’ve had enough
Experience with villains to
Know one when you see one.


So easy to be crippled emotionally
And not even know it. Can’t fathom
Anymore how certain connections
Are forged. Everyone’s a potential
Threat – the potential joy a painful
Carrot dangled on a string in front
Of an ass. Youth are so full of life
They’re entitled to indiscretions,
But once you mature you have no
Excuse for not acting your age. Or
Has convention simply become a
Crutch – holding up who – holding
Up what? If you find you’re feeling
Ageless and could care less what
Society thinks, is this not so much
Degeneration as regeneration?


Everyone needs their walls
Nowadays – too many thieves.
Everyone is a potential thief,
And just to prove you’re not
A robber can take forever.
Thieves disguise themselves
As nice people, so not even
The nicest of persons can
Pass freely through the wall.
Walls are like stopping pirates
By draining the sea. What if
Your deamboat comes in and
Just finds a wall? You can’t
Just leave yourself wide open,
True, but if you build a wall
Make sure you haven’t just
Walled yourself into a trap
Of your own design.


We are held to ransom by Hawaiian
Air – highway robbery with aloha.
Is it fuel prices that force your fares
Through the roof? All those lives
Lost and ruined when we invaded
Iraq, and gas prices go up. Islam
Could easily take over the world
Now just by starting an airline and
Offering better fares. Fighting for
Freedom and democracy makes
Convenient campaign rhetoric, but
If the real battle is for the economy
You just handed a victory to our
Enemy on a silver platter. If we’re
Tired of being gouged by airlines
Like Hawaiian, and Allah Airways
Says, how undemocratic, compare
Our prices please, it doesn’t take
Rocket science to work out where
Consumer loyalty is going to go.


What will the ponies do now
That we don’t need them to
Send messages to each other?
Maybe they can become
Counselors for people who
Are having trouble talking.
What will the express riders
Do now that computers have
Displaced them as carriers of
News and conveyors of more
Private communication? I can
See them in Congress, symbols
Of something dear to us that
Nevertheless was never gong
To last. As the pony express
Rides off into memory, those
Close to it can treasure a
Certain reverence that only
Comes with redundancy.


On Groundhog Day I’ll pop
My head above my hole and
Let it be known I’ll address
Any question posed with
Appropriate politeness. Yes,
I do. No, I don’t. Yes, I am.
No, I’m not. Yes, I like this.
No, I don’t like that. Yes, I
Would. No, I wouldn’t. Well,
Maybe I might were you to
Convince me you’re serious.
Of course you can. Are you
Kidding? This information
Isn’t public domain, but I
Think it’s a shame I can’t be
Open with you if you want
To be open with me. Or else
We can maintain a public
Face of indifference, even
While knowing our hearts
Still care enough to hurt in
Private. If sharing this way
Isn’t appropriate even on
Groundhog Day, then I
Guess we’ll just have to
Wait until Judgment Day.


I think I know how aliens
Must feel – desperate not
To be noticed – knowing
That even if you’re strong
You’re still outnumbered –
Trying to appear more
Normal than normal,
Boring, harmless,
Innocuous. The nail that
Sticks up will be pounded
Back down, especially an
Unfriendly reminder like
Me that creation doesn’t
Reflect their image alone.
Negotiating with these
Aliens makes fighting off
The Tongans and Fijians
Seem like mere child’s
Play by comparison.


Foundation, below the surface,
Not out in the open. Strong
Bottom can outlast a weak top.
Shall we judge this house by its
Ugly, messy, broken, dangerous
Outer appearance or by its rock-
Solid foundation? As faded as
It looks, the house refueses
To fall, refuses to move. Mocks
Your departure by staying right
Where you left it, just how you
Left it. Fires, storms, robbers,
Lawyers, squatters – nothing
Changes at the foundation.
The house simply accepts the
Ebb and flow of life. You could
Take a bulldozer and dynamite
To prove you refuse to be
Affixed to your past, but the
Foundation has the last laugh,
For when the outside world
Batters you so badly that you
Need a foundation to return to,
Where will you go?


Machines make things so
Easy for us, but does easy
Really mean better or
Happy? Machines give us
An advantage over the
Few remaining cavemen
Who don’t know how to
Use them, but would we
Know how to hunt our
Own food if we had to?
We hunt for information,
For connections our
Machines enable. We
Make machines as an
Imitation of us. I hope
They’re not making us
An imitation of them.


This is not the truth, this is
A reflection of the truth,
A meditation on the truth
As it appeared to me when
I was holding the pen. This
Is my calligraphy conveyed
Through a keyboard. This
Isn’t my voice, but you can
Imagine it’s my voice or
Donald Duck’s voice or
Whoever’s voice. These
Are my instructions to
Your soul, my wisdom
In sum total, a tiny yellow
Post-it note on eternity’s
Bulletin board. Very sorry
I missed you. I wanted to
Be with you, but this is as
Close as I could get.


Cash machines not working,
Koko Bean lunch counter
Exploding, no imports of
Eggs, local chickens not
Cooperating, inscrutable
Chinese rationing my
Marlbro Reds. Impending
Signs of our economy
Collapsing, with social
Anarchy soon to follow
When they run out of
Beer. And it’s all the fault
Of the Samoan prates in
Their paopaos, menacing
Container ships with rocks
And pelus. Winning back
Samoa from western
Influence. You’d really
Have to love Samoa to
Stay after McDonalds has
Gone down like the Alamo.


I’d trying to bend the language
To my will, but it’s resisting.
Language has gone on strike,
Seeking more equitable terms
For the work I expect it to do.
Language, I may have been
Hard, but I hope I stopped
Short of cruel. I know I ask
You to do the most unusual
Things, and you always play
Along like a good sport. But
Now I can’t get you to flow.
Have the real or imagined
Conflicts and incompatible
Beliefs I’ve been trying to
Capture made you retreat
Into a silence harder than
Stone, as if to warn me, the
Words may sound clever, but
If I use them I’ll regret it?
Silence is a killer, and power
Over death is impressive, but
Silence needs language to fill
Its emptiness. Language, let
Me leave at least a trace for
Someone who’s trying to find
The trail – flow for me again.


Spirit, you can’t see it but it’s
There. Spirit distills ideals, the
Purity of intent to inform but
Never command action. Spirit
Is an angel on your shoulder,
But never a deciding factor.
Spirit, closely embraced, can
Make you wonder if you’re
Believing an illusion. Where
Wishing meets knowing, in
A twilight where something
Inside us is trying to decide
To be or not to be, spirits
Whisper to us in dreams.
Which spirit do we listen to?
You can’t see it, but it’s there.


Saw a science fiction movie
Once about a planet where
It never stops raining. Made
Me wonder why most of the
Time I feel like it’s raining
Inside. That feeling of nature
Itself running interference.
Rain makes us grateful for
Shelter, reminds us we’re
Not fish even though it feels
Like we’re living in water a
Lot of the time. Water can
Cleanse, refresh, let us start
Again clean. Water falls from
The sky or flows from within
The earth like a hidden truth
That refuses to stay hidden.
Water means well but needs
To know when to stop lest
It drown us. Rain inside could
Go on until it floods our inner
World, taking us back to our
Origins as fish, each a tiny
Consciousness dreaming
The land back into being.


Do you have the missing
Piece to my puzzle? Until
It’s complete, the picture
Will always have a flaw.
Beauty and completeness
Bring together separate
Qualities, each important,
Irreplaceable. The parts
Can stand alone when
Something beautiful is
Broken into pieces, but
Their true nature, true
Value and true meaning
Are only revealed in the
Joining. How curious this
One missing piece tries to
Complete every other
Puzzle besides mine.


Brothers and sisters who never
Got over how mother apportioned
Her love. Brothers and sisters
Caused each other problems that
Still never have been resolved.
Brothers and sisters all have their
Own stories of what they made
Out of their lives. Their problems
Are now their gifts to their children
To share with their husbands and


Review, constant review. No rest
From the watchful eye guiding you
To perfection. Saying it’s for your
Protection. For you are like a child
Who’ll put their hands on the stove
Or a kitten who’ll jump over the
Rail. How will you ever get through
All the danger that awaits you
Unless you wear a leash and wag
Your tail? Good doggie, good
Doggie, here’s a biscuit, now be
Happy you don’t have to search
Through the garbage to survive.
Relax – we’ve got your back and
Everything else.


To feed all these hungry stomachs,
To feed all these hungry hearts, to
Feed all these hungry minds, to fill
All these empty souls, to resolve
All these simmering conflicts. Help
Wanted, looking for a few good
Men and women. Ask not what
Your world can do for you, but
What you can do for your world.
Warning: the world will eat you,
But at least it’s for a good cause.


There’s about a million filters
Any feeling of mine has to go
Through before I’d even
Dream of expressing it. I’m
Like fish, easily overcooked
But really good raw once you
Acquire my taste. Raw like
Sushi, just as nature made
Me, no fancy recipe to
Compromise my flavor.
Why won’t you let me on
Your menu? Chefs all want
To smother me in sauce
Just cause they can, filter
Out all of my salty ocean
Substance, make my bones
Soft. Wouldn’t you rather
Have my natural nutrients,
Not some diluted deal?
Honestly, all these filters
Mostly make me falter.

Posted by James Kneubuhl on 2011-01-25 01:29:01


Broccoli in white sauce

Broccoli in white sauce

Steamed broccoli tossed with farfalle in white sauce:
soy milk, nutritional yeast, sauteed onions and garlic.

Finished with crushed red peppers and sesame seeds.

Photo and story by….

Posted by cizauskas on 2009-05-09 22:50:20

Tagged: , food , recipe , vegetarian

wedding cakes solihull

wedding cakes solihull

wedding cakes solihull,

Posted by AnyOccasionCakes1 on 2013-02-12 08:15:24

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