A (wise) man of two faces
Musings, commentary, and the occasional parade of novelty.

Updates Monday - Friday


I am afraid
of people.

Not of their violence or their vice,
nor their grime or their lice.

I couldn’t care about their looks
or weapons or dirty books.

It’s not their booming, brazen pride
that makes me want to run and hide.

Or their religiosity
that raises the bar for crazy.

I’m afraid I’ll lose myself
and forget the way out.

My lady Luna

Thank you, my dear,
for so many things.

For brightening the night
and lighting our way
even if you sometimes
like to wander away.

For your fickle tug
upon the salty deep
that rouses all the rolling waves
that oft sing me to sleep.

For all the inspiration
to all those songs and art
which eased my weary mind
and soothed my wounded heart.

For the silver shimmer
that lights our lover’s skin
adding a touch of grace
to quite the night of sin.

For all these things and more
you, dear Luna, I adore.

Shallow in, shallow out

They’re so self-important -
staring down their nose
regarding us as lesser, “ants”,
to be crushed beneath their toes.

They have only one lover
deserving their affection
and that one is no other
than their own reflection.

I have just as much use
for them as they for me
and often wish they’d choose
to love more quietly.

Because I don’t want to hear them prattle
about how they’re cowboys and not cattle.


I know of a certain place,
a lovely little shoppe.
Though slightly short on space,
it has goods that are on top.

It’s filled with crafty art
and gorgeous vestments
made with quite a lot of heart
by those with skilled commitment.

And run by quite the pair,
gals with smiles and sass,
who often welcome there
many-a workshop class.

It’s one of the best places under the sun
with goods and company second to none.


I do not know you.

For when I see you,
it is by the merest flicker of candlelight
dancing along the edges of your skin,
ignorant of the depths of your curves;

when I hear you,
it is only the quietest whisper
that hides between the sheets of a midnight tryst
wishing for the timbre of a boisterous afternoon guffaw;

when I touch you,
it is reminiscent of a polite museum visitor
who wistfully desires to more fully experience
the magnificent grain and texture of every frozen moment;

when I breath you in,
it is a fragrance that teases me,
like rich spices wafting through the air
promising a meal that always leaves me hungry for more;

when I kiss you,
it is a sweet and salty hors d’oeuvre
lacking the depth of palate of the ocean
I can feel in your arms as they try to drag me under.

I do not know you;
not the feeblest shadow of a shadow of your radiance
but I look forward to learning - with earnest, attentive enthusiasm.


I want to be a wind:

sprinting over the fields,

roaring through the mountains,

and tickling the leaves.

Living meditation

Though the ground may not be stable
and a storm may toss you about
like a bag of dry, brittle of leaves -
don’t forget to breathe.

Though you may be surrounded
or driven into a corner
by all manner of assailants -
don’t forget to breathe.

Though you may find yourself alone
before a cold, uncaring world
wanting to cry out for a reason -
don’t forget to breathe.

Reach out and steady yourself,
rise to the challenge of the moment,
stand up, face forward, and, as always,

Don’t forget to breathe.

Concede on bended knee

I bear the burden of the rod

and feel the sting of every blow

and every poke and every prod

that served, in time, to lay me low.


The first thing I notice is your warmth.
But long before I even take note
of your smooth skin under my fingers,
I feel the longing in my cold side
and the satisfaction in my warm.

Next I take you in your scent,
sweet and somewhat salty;
drawing it in with
a long smooth breath
followed by my satisfied murmurings.

I hear you murmur in response
and feel you shuffle close
while I listen to the sound of
you sleepily wetting you lips,
dry from the night.

I peel open one eye
and see you radiant.
I close that eye
content in knowing
that I am home.

Giving chase

Racing through the woodland trails
following the green eddies
deeper into the verdancy

with the sound of your footsteps up ahead,
with the sound of your laughter up ahead,
with the sound of you up ahead.

Your sound.
Your sounds.
Just up ahead.

The long mile

I keep on walking
down that burning road,
the bag on my back’s
the sum of my load.

My baby lost it
a few miles back,
vomiting black smoke
from a heat attack.

I could hold out my thumb
and try to flag a ride,
but I don’t need pity
because I’ve got my pride.

So I keep on walking
burning holes in my shoes,
'cause to get where I want
I’ve got to pay my dues.


I peruse, aisle by aisle,
and see the wares layed out,
splayed out,
crisp and clean
before my hungry, rapturous eyes.


A fire is raging in our veins,

while we wear a face confused as pain,

before spilling all over the place

leaving a rose upon our face.


For a moment on the day I met her

I was so lost in her eyes

I didn’t notice her literature

nor her shapely, exposed thighs.


She’s got a little secret:

Everybody wants to know

Xactly how she keeps her ass

Youthful and firm, fo sho.

But she just cracks a smile

As she saunters through the door,

Cause she knows a secret held

Keeps ‘em coming back for more.

- Suggested by, and dedicated to, a friend.