Are we not men?


Are we not men?

Living, breathing skeletons,
flesh and skin with salty, sharp
liquids transversing through
multi-layered vessels, arteries, veins.

We’re alive as any living creature,
awakened with environmental sense,
bound to habits and the pressing desire
to survive and thrive.

Yet are we not more shell than man?
Killing and consuming with no soul,
pillaging without reason,
walking in a spirit-dead existence?

For unlike man, a shell knows its place.
Emotionally frozen, it’s deaf to the godly
conscience that surpasses all barbaric traits.

It sees even the most pervasive deeds
as natural, which even men born
into sanity painfully replicate.

Are we not men?
Are we not shells?
Are we not shell-men?

Scrapbook Days

Scrapbook Days

When fortune shuts

her twinkling eyes

on all we’ve ever known,

when our universe crashes down

like hung-head guests at final rites,

as chaos usurpues all order and reason,

as swarms of reality consume our

long-sustained illusions,

run to the shelter of my hands,

let your fears melt into my arms,

listen closely as I whisper us back

to scrapbook days

where the only pictures

are of you and I

fleeing the end of times

under sun-lit skies.




Such thoughts

maul through

this mind

of mine

as cloistered as a nun

one ––

by ––

one ––

by ––

falling down as dominoes

kicked over in the dark

Ideas, theories, questions,


dam up like logs my upper pool

draining old instruction

onto the surrounding ground

to wait in scattered queues

for re-entry