The Alone World Story (TAWS)

(conceptualized first in 2005, written from 2009-2017)

This is a story. 

It is not long. 

It has no real problems involved. 


This story is of people. 

And it usually has no logic.


This may be something wonderful. 

It is not yet clear. 


But make of this what you will.


Deep underneath this place,

There is something. 

They cried, 

Despairing in the dark, 

And yet,

The light lingered,

And stayed.


This is not the last moment of anything. 

Nor is it a beginning.


The rose has always been looked upon as a flower of great distinction. 

However, I find that though they are pure, and of circumstance, 

They are too shallow a beauty. 

—Daisies are the truly rich man’s great flower.


They may be white, 

And centered around just yellow. 

Their petals may be simple in their shape.

But to me they are more than that. 

This simplicity allows for depth and greatness.



Time’s up.


Everyone was taking a test.

They turned it in and left.

But I am still working.

And there was a little boy

Drawing lines on my paper.

He kept turning around.

He eventually left,

But I was not aware of it at the time.


A little girl is writing a letter she doesn’t want to ever send.

She has no one to send it to. Maybe when she dies the letter will be sent?

She has been writing it since she was very young.


There is a little girl writing a book.

She writes more than one.


There is a robot with messed up wires.

Built by a little boy with a complex god.

The little boy building the robot tells many stories.

They shape the world.

He tells the story of gods and salvation.


Sometimes he is god or one of many.

Sometimes he just plays with the other children and runs around.


I have a story about angels.

I will call it: The Angel Story.


The angels have to fight at the end.

And ultimately kneel either way

In Heaven or Hell.

They can never stand.


Sometimes the little one is Michael.

Sometimes Lucifer.

Sometimes another.

Sometimes it is the little boy,

Other times the little girl:

Simply running around and playing.


They are chained down. And have no way of choosing their fate.


Lucifer is often missing.

Michael runs from horses.

But sometimes he runs towards them.

He would never cut his brother down.


I do not remember


The Beginning,


The garden, the tree,

Where the demon and angel met,

Both made of fire.


The End,


It is here too.


A little boy and a little girl are in the garden.


Someone tall (the wind maybe?) whispers in their ears.


The little girl notices the little boy has narrowed eyes.

He is frowning, thinking of something.

He is hiding his contemplation.

What is he thinking?


The little girl pretends to not see the lie,

But it nags at her.


The little boy notices the little girl become frightened and confused.

He hears words that were not said to him.

He becomes scared.

He knows a secret.

He wasn’t supposed to.


Michael has to take up his sword.

His destiny: to cut his brother’s head off.


He is fighting against it,

Against nature.

His nature: to have no free will.


Adam and Eve walked with god.

Lucifer was cast down

For trying to be like god.


Lucifer is

Not Man.




No free will.


Jesus is

Not Man.

The taint of god,

But of Dirt, too.


The Suicidal Messiah:

Man can

And must try

To be like god.




Why not Lucifer?

Why not Sin?


Lucifer is

The First Damned.



Where is Lucifer? Who is Satan?

Would Lucifer run towards horses?


Michael: ‘Like god’.

A cosmic joke.

No choice but to break god’s law.

No choice but to sin.


Why does he not get thrown down into hell with the others?


Why does Michael no longer laugh?

Does he smile?


Sometimes Michael is the mini-god,

The little it, and the strings then are silver chains.


There is a room. It has ideas and emotions in it.


The God Project


All the gods leave but the mini-god stays.


Everyone has run out of the room but I am still there.


People only have so much they can give.

There are only so many ways to cut this heart.


If you find me before I find myself, would you keep me?


A dead letter: one that was never sent.


Love is not always reciprocal.


If all the stories have been told, has every life already been lived?

And what if there were stories you wanted to tell?


If I wrote you a letter I never sent, would it matter to you?

Would it matter to me?


The goodie-two-shoes, the little girl is in a race.

She is told to not run,

And not allowed to stop.

Her laces are untied and she is not allowed to stop to tie them.


Little girl

Burning butterflies

A boy set fire

To a butterfly

Screaming Mimi

Told me

Not to look

And tried

To cover

My eyes

I saw it



It was beautiful,

And I laughed.

I smiled

But quickly

Hid the new

Discovery away.


That wasn’t normal,

And besides

There weren’t

Any flowers

For me.


She can’t give herself any gifts. Her feet are broken.


The Alone,


The mini-god is sitting in a room.

There are many rooms.


In this room, there are many gods.

They are arguing and they all leave.

They agree to come back and teach each other what they learn from their time apart.

The mini-god is left alone in the room.

The mini-god is the little one: the it.

The other gods try to help it and keep it company.

And teach it how to leave its strings,

But they have been away too long.

So it does not understand.


Were they ever really there?


In another room, everyone is taking a test.

And when they finish the exam they are allowed to leave the room.

There is a little girl and a little boy taking the test.

The little girl can never finish the exam.

The little boy keeps drawing lines on her paper whenever she gets close.

And she is constantly scratching out and erasing things.


She never leaves the room.

She does not realize she is alone.

The little boy leaves.

When the little girl looks up and sees his empty seat,

She becomes afraid and worried

(the first panic).


The little boy with the robot sees this and looks up from his project and leaves.

He wishes to speak to someone and ask why

He never manages to make things right.


Why is it all imperfect?


Where is the manifestation of his dream?


Joe Everyman is writing words on paper.

They are not his yet,

But maybe someday

They will be.


Joe erases words and wonders where the editor is

For this piece of crap he is forced to write out before he can dream for himself.


The little boy in the room keeps drawing lines. The little girl is so used to this,

That she never takes the time to realize he is just a robot with messed-up wires.

And she is the only one there. She can hear the kids who finished laughing outside.

And see the shadows near the door. But it is just in her head.

It isn’t real.


The Tree Story,


Cain is still traveling. He is somewhere.

The little it wants to speak to him, as he would understand.

The little it, the little idiot has a mark too, and hopes someday

To find Cain and ask how he manages to live.


What does his mark mean?


Do others hear it?

Do they know the joke?

This scares the little it because they must know.


Cain is better than their idiotic version of the truth.

They shake their heads but never try to help or try to understand.


A little girl with her book and her little flower tries to give the other children chances.


The little idiot, the little one is strung up.

How can she help?

The little it is a little puppet.


The little girl tries to cut the puppet’s strings but it gets worse:

It bleeds and words appear on its wooden surface.

It’s bittersweet.


The people around it become frightened.

And the puppet doesn’t seem to be made of wood anymore.

They see it as one of them,

But it has many open wounds and scars.


The little girl

With the little flower

Wants to cut the strings

But cannot

And does not

Want to leave

The little flower


The little boy with the robot

Offers to help

He looks at

The little one

And draws

A copy of it.

And goes away

To study it

And perhaps find

A way to fix it

Before it ever became anything

Like it.


The little girl playing

Looks up

And offers

To sit with the little it

And moves closer

And sits

On the rock

And draws it pictures

For as long as she can.


The little boy chasing butterflies

With his net

Stops for a while

To look around

And manages

To take a deeper breath than before

(The first sigh)


For the first time

The first pause


The little boy with the robot

And the little girl with the book

Agree to teach each other

Important things


They part ways


The little boy

Writes books

And discovers religion, mathematics

And The Story

And creates Joe Everyman


The little girl

Discovers science, philosophy

And imperfects

And creates the little puppet


The Mutant Story,


The little girl with a treasure chest of toys

Is left inside,

Trying to reach the key.

But it’s too high up,

And it keeps getting pushed farther away.


The little girl who plays with her chemistry modeling kit

And with her dollhouse

Is left alone

No one notices

Or bothers her.


The Story,


The little girl chasing butterflies

And playing with fire

Writes a book

(Maybe simply a letter?)

The first.


She plays with a chemistry modeling kit,

And builds a dinosaur.


The little girl building sandcastles

Is afraid of water


There are strings.


Who is the little puppet?


She is a child.

She plays

And tries to invite

The other

Little girl

To come play, too.


The other little girl

Walks away from her

Holding a book, instead.


The little boy

Is building a robot

With red and blue wires


The little girl

Rewires it


He goes away


He is constantly fixing

And tending to the robot.


The little girl building sandcastles

Looks over sometimes

But there is no point.


The other little girl

Brings her book to him

It only has one line,

A single sentence.

(The first sentence).


The little boy

Is too busy to look

And goes away,


To where?


The little prophet

Every year promises away

Odds and evens

Though she is told to write

She always tries

To have more time



Near the train

In the open road,

Agrees to walk with

The little prophet

But it doesn’t work.


She always runs away

In the end.

Even if she wants

To write for them

She cannot.

She is willing

Even if she doesn’t believe.


At the end of the book,

The little puppet is

On the beach

Playing in the sand

With the little girl

Who is building sandcastles.


And when the end comes

And everyone lines up

And starts walking

She doesn’t notice,

Doesn’t care

And keeps on playing.


Her mother notices

That the little girl

Has stayed on the beach

Playing in the sand

And stays

And plays with

Her little girl.



While the little girl

Is looking away,

Her mother is replaced

With a puppet:


Sometimes a demon,

Sometimes an angel,

Sometimes neither.


The little one

Never understands why

The little it

Never gets it right.


The one time it is allowed

To walk

It finds itself

In fire.


The little girl

Looks down and sees

A wooden doll


But it never

Catches fire.


Joe always dies

At the end

The only one

That doesn’t die

Is the puppet without strings.


The little girl

Always chooses

The little idiot with strings.


Vesper is the wind.

She is always running.


Why does she always end up with scars?


Twilight always ends up dead,

Always swinging.


Diana kills her best-friend,

Cuts her head off,

And keeps it,

And speaks to it,

In the dark.


Is it night?


She cannot leave it,

She just kneels there

And stays.


How did it come to that?


The Academy is in ruins.


When the little idiot

Chose the little puppet

She lost the Academy

—She can never have it.


She refuses

To walk into heaven

And sometimes

She tries to push people



When someone draws

A line in the sand

She keeps erasing it

And trying to push it away.

She is willing

To walk into hell.


The little prophet’s

Hands are not her own.

She has no words

Of her own.


She is told

That if she writes

She can have her Academy

At the end of the book.


The little one

Is sitting on a rock

And watches everyone

Simply pass by.


The strings don’t work

And it is frozen

Or simply unable to move.


Maybe if it could change the reason?


But that would be worse.


The little puppet

Has no proof

That there is anything


The strings are all

It has ever known

Even if the strings hurt

And are bloody

They are all

It has ever known.


The little one

Sits and wonders

About daisies.

It also has a flower

And the little girl with the rose

Finds comfort in

His bloody countenance

As it reminds her of herself

And makes her smile.


It never makes any noise




The bloody it

Is kneeling

On its heels

With bended knees.


In the garden

It lied to god,

Or hid too many times.


It smiles when it hears,

As it knows

A different truth

Than any of theirs.


It may not have the sun but it has its own simple truth.


The World,


In The Beginning,


There was something.

Maybe a spark?


There was a thief, a gift-giver, and an animal.

What if the thief was the gift-giver?


The little girl who likes the dark

Has her closet

(The first sin)

It teaches her

The first lesson

(The first shame).


The little boy who likes to chase the wind

He has to stop running someday


The little boy

Building his little robot

Forgets about those that are already there.

The robot never works and yet he still tends to it.

And is consumed by the ungrateful it,

The little one, the robot has red and blue wires.


The puppet’s strings are red,

Tainted by its blood.


The little girl

Is trying to save the red rose.


Why is it red?


She plants it

And waters it

But it keeps


Changing and

Going away.


Her mother tells her she needs to come inside

But the little girl stays with the rose

Everyone keeps walking

And going away

Her father takes her mother.

The little boy catching butterflies stays awhile,

But eventually he goes away too.


The little girl notices everyone is leaving.

She can see the garden

But cannot go in.



She tries to save the rose,

Her little flower,

Though she cannot see it clearly,

It must be a rose.



The little boy watches and tries to help.

Their mother takes him by the hand,

And tells the little girl they have to go now.

The little girl chases after them,

But they keep going farther and farther away.


She gives the potted flower to her mother,

Who promises to take care of it,

But whenever the little girl walks away,

The little flower reappears in the plot of soil she dug for it.


The little girl tries to give the little flower away,

But no one seems to hear her or see her.

The puppet with bloody strings is there,

But the little girl cannot see its strings.


She begs someone to take the flower

And take care of it

And protect it,

But the flower is cruel

And refuses to do things the right way.

The little flower can go inside,

But it never does.



The little girl draws a line in the sand

And tries to push everyone into the garden

But it never works,

The line keeps washing away

And she has to keep drawing it,

Over and over



The little girl building sandcastles offers to stay awhile and play

But when the little girl with the little flower and the book finally looks up and notices,

She’s gone.


Her mother sometimes stays

But it never works.

The little girl building sandcastles keeps playing

While the tide rises


The mother stays and watches

Her little girl play

Even though the water keeps rising

And she is afraid of water.


In The End,


The little girl stays for her mother,

A little boy with wings says it will be okay,

But when it is too late,

The little girl turns back and sees her mother

Has been replaced

And is just a puppet with strings.


The little girl becomes frightened

But the puppet has tears in her eyes.



The mother is in the garden,

And the little girl who played too long

Is left with the crying puppet.

Maybe if she could make it stop crying,

It wouldn’t be such a lonely mistake?


The alone,

The little girl,

The little one,

The little it: the cosmic joke,

The puppet with no strings:

But there really are strings

—Bloody strings.


The puppet has wooden hands and feet,

But does not know it.

What happens when it realizes its hands have never even been real?


Everyone sees the strings

But the puppet never does

Until one day it thinks to look up

And it sees them:

A joke.


The sun goes down

And it becomes dark

And all the puppet sees

Are the bloody strings.


It can’t have both the strings and the dream.


The cosmic joke

The puppet

The mini-god

The little one who got the answer wrong:


Above its head is a question mark that only it can see.

The mark becomes more dear to it than itself,

Over time

After all,

It is the replacement for everything.


But the mark is wrong.

It isn’t supposed to be

A question mark.

But maybe that is what makes the joke so great?


That rubble that is at the end,

When it is completely dark

And everyone has figured out

Where and what they want.


The Academy is all that the little one stayed for

And that is the joke:

It’s all broken now,

And it won’t ever be fixed.


It’s The End of the World,


So The Academy is only as good as It,

The monster at the end of the book.


In The Alone World Story


It is the broken castle.


The book

(Maybe the first story?):


The little girl saving the little flower,

The little girl playing with fire.


Joe Everyman,

Jo the Artist.


The little boy chasing the wind,

The little boy catching butterflies.



It is somewhere

It is everywhere and everything

But not.



It is nothing now.


The Silver Chain
I walked into a store

And it was there.
I found it.
No one wanted it

But I thought it was beautiful


Just like me.
And I took it.
There is a joke in that somewhere.

The little girl writing a letter

The Academy:

it’s not for her

but she’ll realize that

The silly puppet who thinks she can

or that someone is waiting:

Lisé? The boy with the baseball cap?

But this is
Not A Love Story
The little girl with the flower

The little boy building the robot

The little puppet willing to walk into hell

can never enter the garden

can and will only

ever burn.
The wooden puppet

How and why does it burn?

Joe sees the little puppet


about to drown with her mother

sometimes fake, sometimes puppet

waiting and playing with her
Begging for someone

to come across

the line

tending to her


and not able

to leave her

The flower cannot walk.

So how will it go into the garden?

Sometimes the father comes and takes

the mother by the hand

and she gathers

the little boy playing

and says good-bye

to the little puppet.

the mother takes the flower

and tends to it

–it becomes a garden

and the little puppet can

see it

and sometimes

walk over

but she can

never walk in.
In the garden:

the mother watering and potting plants,

her child is watching her.
The mother cannot hear the child?

If the mother cuts the roots of the tree

her memories will be lost forever.

The child tries to find a way to warn her,

but the mother is too far away.
The mother has scissors she uses to cut the plants.

would help and maybe guide her.

If only the child could find her.
How did Vesper go blind?


The first


can be comforting but also disturbing


The little girl with the book

teaches the others many things

analyzes them

The little boy has to stop running someday

The little boy with the robot that breaks often

forgets about others, obsesses over perfecting it,

his creation.

Silly? Selfish?

The little girl with the little flower

thinks that only she can save the flower.

No one else.


offers to help

attempts to solve riddles


the little girl with the flower

tries to cheer the others up

asks for help

and spends time with the others


The little one tries to cut the puppet’s strings.


The little boy with the robot

found the spark:

stories of myth, fantasy, power, war, and more

stories from someone

–not theirs.


They belong to Joe Someone,

the Everyman.


the discovery of History

and the need for it.


Joe Prophet

the writer

the artist




A memory

of death and suicide.

Can you burn yourself from the inside out and just stop?


The willow tree

a man long gone

lost to time,


And I asked to be the oak tree,

So I could never be cut down.


I am the storyteller,

The spark,

The third eye.


These important stories: what happens to Joe if he doesn’t tell them?

Are they even his hands if someone else guides them?

Why does Joe always die?

Why is only the puppet left?

Joe doesn’t believe in god.

He doesn’t understand it.

Why would some supreme being ask him to write?

Will his hands work again once he does?


Joe always dies at the end.

The only one that does not die is the puppet without strings.

Prophets die.

Disappear after they write.

If Joe Everyman,

Joe the Prophet

wrote and thought they were his stories,

would it be true?




Alice is running

in search of keys


the gift-giver and the thief, the dog, the animal

are both fighting over one

they wish to find


Little Alice

guards the key

by not thinking of it

no matter what.


The doors lead to many places

And each has its own key:

to ghosts, spirits, and splits

to angels, chains, and fractures

to gods, Cain, and Judas

Michael and Lucifer

to the Light and the Darkness

the First and the Last

to glasses

the imaginary




And the rest.


Yet, Little Alice is missing


the door to herself.


And she still has to find

her mother’s door,

though she already has

the key.


So It Goes


Mother is a quiet good person.

She is always silent and kind.

I want to be like her someday.


People say they will run a race, laughing, because they think they know I cannot even take part, because my shoes have no laces. I tell my mother quietly, I want to be just like her.


So I tell her to watch and I join the race. I run side by side those other people, even though I know my shoes will soon fall off and that I will lose. That there is no way I can win this race.


I don’t mind.


It’s not about that.

It’s about me and my mom.


This is a lesson

In letting go

The world withers

The sky clears

The wind whispers

Words so dear

And in that distant echo

You hear



There was a box.

Someone held it.

He was not a good person.


“To my mother with love” is what I will say. When we reach the end of that blue day. This was for you, whether you saw through or not. It was all for you.


The little girl in the race: She has to stop running someday.

There were beautiful moments always if you just knew when to stop.


A girl woke up to ash and dust

She lay in bed

Breathing it in

The air around her

Suffocated her

In sleep

She lies



We went to the garden

out back, where her life

grows. We kneeled before

her growth and studied

it for awhile. We fed

the soil with our tears.

And noticed the flowers standing

still. Their tender gardener has

gone home again. She will no

longer smile and chatter away

to her children. She will no longer

water this ground. She will

never again sit under its shade.

For she has gone. Back home.

The tender gardener will never return.

For she is gone to her Father,

where her mother has rested, waiting

for her dear little girl in a garden



This face decays

Once smiling

Now frowning


For my love

Was your love

And in between

Time kept


‘Til the end



Beside her,

And she, a sunflower,

Turning constantly

Towards the sun


She went home

That day

It seems

Though she often

Spoke of other



A funny man

Died today

Or was it yesterday?

Was it even this week?


Joe read the feature

In the newspaper

A famous man

A kind man


By his own hand

And Joe the Liar cannot help

But wonder why.


So he takes up his pen

And writes a silly tribute that no one will really see.


It reads:


‘They say laughter is the best medicine.

But then you died.


Laughter was no medicine,

No cure for you.


But you,

You were cure for all.’


He looks up from his notebook


He rests his pen on his desk

The radio blares in the background

And he slowly lays his head down on the cold hard surface


Time’s up.


The Alone World Bible Story


“I love you”

I whisper in the air

Music blaring in my ears.

Fan blowing in my face.


This sigh, even I cannot hear.


The truth is in the layers,



I am screaming,

In the dark.


Looking back:

I see,

hear nothing.


And my Joe

(Dear Joe)

Is gone.


Little Alice must not delay


Yet the farther she runs

The closer she is to her mother’s garden.




We are prisoners

Locked here

In this place


The children run

Towards and away from



I am the gift-giver.

I gave a gift long ago

To Torment,

The Devil,

The Bad,



And The Good,

The High One,

The Way,

The High God

looked down upon me

with a frown on his face.


This is how it happens.

This is how it began.

This is how it is.


Joe the Liar

sits on a bench

in the park


He is wearing

A beige trenchcoat

His mother bought for him

A long time ago

That he has worn

Ever since.


It’s his soul.

He feels a sense of deja vu

everywhere he goes

But it doesn’t really

Make sense.


He’s never lived here before has he?

But everything he sees

Everything he hears

harkens back to

that summer of unwanted silence

when his beloved

looked up and away

and muttered softly

about Joe Schmoe

Joe Not There Yet


Each word

a wound

Yet to be healed


She gave details

of Joe and what he would do


And everything has proven to be



He remembers the circle

(I) She walked away from

only to be drawn back

by bright eyes

and words unspoken.


He remembers the joke

was always

on her


There were many?

His smirk

As she held up the sticky note

He gave her


The words:

‘The Alone World Bible Story’

scrawled on its face.


It will take years

for her to come to terms with this.


She will mistakenly

Think it’s a book

Already written.


Eventually she will write

a long poem


That details it all

She will give it this name

He gave her

But will have the courage

to take the word ‘Bible’ out

In an attempt to have a more

mature ring to it.


Because Liar,

That title was it.




A demand

from a man

who will soon

be famous


But we did not know that then.


We sat in that restaurant


as I could not


and you refused

to start.


And he walked up

and spoke

arrogant and rude


As far as I was concerned

Manhattan belonged to me.


And there the famous man


waiting for an answer

to his pointless demand


And in my delirium


I heard a voice

in my head:

Joe from So-Long-Ago

Joe Not-Here-Yet.


It was deep

and painful to hear

made me want to

claw my ears out.


But for some reason

I always listened.


Joe showed me a

pretty picture

of a little girl

watching a series

with another one,

a friend

who would be there

till the end.


The image


me smile then

and gives me

comfort even



And Joe the Writer

Joe the Liar

remembers me

and her

Remembers everything

though not all at once

and not always at the same time.


He remembers

the friend he promised me

if I weathered the storm

and came out unchanged.


Joe was watching a show

and saw him,

the famous man

and remembers those words




And now

I must admit


I was hiding Salt

all my life

or so it seems.


I am tired

Yet weary of sleep.


Joe the Prophet sits in a coffee shop

A friend before him

But not really there



it slips away always.


So fast.


So easily.


And this time they spent together

Joe will one day look back

When all is gone away from him

And try to remember what was said

And what went unsaid.


He will struggle to remember if they even said hello

And if that really meant goodbye.


And it’s all gone



Nothing left but

wooden hands

wooden feet


This sad

little puppet


Tried to do everything



And the oak tree was cut down?


The soul

The spirit

it lingers here.


Sometimes I wish we had all

the conversations possible

So I would know

what you would say.


push forward

pull back

cycling this way

and that.

push forward

pull back

your mind ill at ease

with this

and mine ill-advised

at that.


Even god cannot save you now.


You have to break through

to come out unscathed

you must destroy what made you


this destruction might seem violent

but really the creator created

and thus was unmade.


If only

Joe the Prophet

could see this

as what it is.





They won’t stop copulating

You have to break the world


You have to tear them asunder

In order to breathe.


Yet there Joe sits

Contemplating his in-between



And the Mother-Sky

And Father-Earth

Keep embracing






The oak tree will


Grow and grow


Pushing his maker-earth and sky



Their love

Now broken


The seas can now be formed

From their unending tears.


And that ocean I love

So distant from me now


Is that how it works?


As simple as that?


The Atlantic Ocean


If I could paint you

I would


I declared so long ago


And paint you I tried


The little girl with the flower

Stayed there far too long


Her flower straying too near

To those powerful waves


The seas sang a song

Only she could hear

That siren song

She paid heed

To that day


So close to the end

On the sand


Her flower inched closer

To the end


Wanted to be swallowed up

Become one with the water

One with the sand


And the little girl stood

Tears stopped in her eyes

Sobbing out

Dear no

No come away from there!


The flower walked on

And the little girl

Rushed forward

And caught the flower

Just in time


Before it could be



In those unyielding waters.


And so the little girl

With her little flower

Hurried away from the sand

And the rising waters


Leaving the little girl building sandcastles



The little boy with his little robot

And its red and blue wires

They have to start working someday.


Joe the Liar has closed up ears


And I


I was not much better.


And as I lay

And as I moved


Frightened by this fate


The Voice

Spoke out to me


Who was it? Was it god?


That deep dark sound

Reverberating so loud

Echoing over and over


In my head


Asking me what I had set out for

What it was exactly

That I wanted.


Still I remember the sound.


So far away from me now


And Joe the Writer

Was a vision

Only I saw


When the boy with the baseball cap

Asked me to choose a future

With him


Or one



And I

Too busy


Joe Someone


To see who mine really was.


And the uncreated creating

The world

The universe as a whole

Once more


The oak tree grew fast

The oak tree grew far.


And the creators

Sky and Earth

Were undone



These words

Are like gifts

From an old

Forgotten friend.


And the longer Joe Nobody


The Voice


The less time

The little prophet has

Her odds and evens are running out!


The mini-prophet

Walked with god

The High One


And along the forest trail

She passed a silent



The mini-prophet

Stood awhile

Curious at the silence








An angel for a different kind

A different people.


Who always seemed to come in threes

As she aged


Eli stood

At the end of the road


And as she left the shadow of god

And entered into the light


You mean the face of god, do you not?


The little prophet promised to meet


At the train on an odd year

And take up his work


And give up her hands and feet

To His work.


The little prophet walked away from time

And Eli took his turn

And was shot down

On those streets

Once, twice, and many more times


The mini-prophet stood

Eyes unseeing

Remembering that first and last

Walk with god


And that angel who stood



And cold


Who could have come at this time

And saved him

But chose to stay as he was



And the little prophet bit her tongue

And allowed it to become like a snake’s


She crossed her arms

Behind her back

And her hands unclasped

Fingers crossed


She spoke


Here I am

What would you have of me?


And silence was her only response.


So she abandoned god who had already left her?



Or the Messiah

The taint of God


Or rather the shadow of Him


How is the Messiah a Shadow?


Jesus was what god could never be

What he should never be


He was the dirt

Or the shadow of the light


He came down and became flesh

And thus inherited


From us.


Joe the Prophet

Joe the Liar

Joe the Writer

Is asked by God

Why do you write?


Joe Everyman

Replies, steadfast

I write because

I have a story

To be told


I write because

I have something

To say

Worth being heard


But here you are

Coming to ruin that

Change my words

Into yours


The Little Prophet

The mini-prophet

Didn’t work out

For you

I see


She saw

Your face

In its decay

And in its radiance.


That other side

Of you

That you keep



It was

Too much

For her.


And Joe the Writer

Gets up

And stands to the side

One last time


Ready for his hands

To be severed

Replaced by divinity


For him to be left

With wooden hands

With wooden feet


He remembers

Mister Bike

In the cold winter

Carrying teabags

In his pocket



Covered in letters

Of love


A tradition

Passed on

From the end

To him


When his ancestors

Were lined up

And given

David’s star


And the few

Who escaped

Lived on

Through the

Stories told.


Joe the Liar

Joe the Thief


The Man

He encountered

On those streets

Many times

Growing up.


He remembers

The vase of an

Old woman he

Sat with when

He overcame


And shot back

To those people

In line

For the chambers

For the end.


He bumped into

The Man

He assumed was

The boy the old

Lady kept

Telling him about.


And Joe the Liar

Knelt to the ground

Before The Man

The soon-to-be-famous guy

And asked him to pray

With him for a while.


The Man walked on.


Joe Someone

Was caught in the rain

And he ran

With The Man

To shelter

Away from

God’s deep dark demanding



The man walked on.

Joe never escaped.


And here Joe the Liar

Joe the Prophet stands

Hands up

In agony

He cries



Why me?


Don’t you know?

I created a religion,

As a child,

According to your

Good Book

I should

For all intents and


Be the Anti-Christ

Or the Anti-Prophet.


How dare you

Forgive me!


I, who has

Done nothing

But avoid you!


Why are you

Here at my



My hands, I

Suppose, were

Never my own.


The white elephant slept in

His virgin mother’s womb

Or so it goes





Where are you?


The little Buddha

Clenched his fists

Too angry to explain


That old man

He stole my beads

He stole my chain


He stole my title


And I have lost my sense of self

My state of mind


I have lost my aum.


The little Buddha cries on

And on


Seemingly proving to those around him that he is not who he says he is.


There is no Truth

only Emptiness.


The little Buddha

sweeps the ground

before him


The sand in his zen garden

is constantly being swept into geometric patterns.


The little Buddha

has in his zen garden

a tree

or a sapling, rather


Growing in the center


No leaves

Nor flowers

adorn its branches.


And there is a stream

which flows around it

and through it.


The little Buddha

hides in his garden

contemplating life, love, and nothingness.



lay witness to his beloved

profess her love for another


She cried out

daring someone

anyone to contradict her.


No one spoke.



Jesus, the Messiah,

And the Arch-Angels,

As well as, Satan,

and Lucifer

all congregated in her mind.


All there to bear witness

To his beloved’s silliness.

So adamant was she

To not belong to anyone


She professed her love to the silent Angel

And silver chains appeared wrapping around her

Holding her down

But still she rose up


Refusing to be held down


She called out to Michael,

The boy in the baseball cap,

Only to be shot down?


And the High One

Revealed himself to her

And she in her youth and long history of grief

Threw up her finger in the air and cursed him out.



watched, eyes closed

his soul having moved to her body

As she built a pyre to every man, woman

who had ever owned her heart.


She then conjured a bow and arrow in her mind

And shot Michael in the heart.


Thus, she trapped herself in the dream.







can be found

burying his mantra of love

in the sand

underneath his barren tree.


His beloved will call out to him years hence.




She will cry


but he will be far away

from that time

when her names

made him smile.


His tree was teepeed

and his river tainted

by the Dark

which entered his mind then.


It will take years

to fix.


Deliberate action.


The little Buddha

will never be recognized

for what he is


He will die



while the old man

laughs idly on





no one will think

to realize


you were here


that you cried here

and that you fell silent here

never to speak again.


The serenity you gained

from your time with your beloved

was far more than the courage

any line forgot.


Did you see the shooting arrow?


The beloved

Her body became a temple

Where her old friends

And the men she knew

Came to


Her well was the deepest

that dark abyss, so bright

until they take the water

once taken it becomes tainted





Seeing this

she feels something is wrong

And she shrieks

accidentally in her fright

running out of her body

towards the future

eight years hence


where she sits in Westwood

in the lost city,

Los Angeles,

with her mother

watching the super bowl.


This is how it starts

This is how it ends


The woman looks up and from the corner of her eye

sees herself as a young girl wrapped up in that jacket,

her soul.


She will turn to her mother and beg her to help the girl

go back to when she is from.


And her mother will comply.


She goes to sleep and dreams.


She dreams of The Hermit

and The Wheel of Fortune.


She dreams of absolution.


She dances and tries to come to terms

with her ancestor, Thayumanavar

and his words.


She dances and whirls around on the soil

singing at the top of her lungs

‘til she passes out

And when she awakens a flower is where her feet tread.

A single pink rose.


I thought it was red?


Kali comes to her as she dances

Her mother is sick and will soon be returning to mother-Kali

the earth-shaker.


She sleeps and dreams

The monkey-god calls out to her

But in her confusion, fright

She refuses to see, to hear, to speak.


And when she awakens she curses Kali, too.


She sleeps and dreams one last time, after that.


Her mother’s spine is filled with diamonds

And they cut them out

But leave the biggest diamond behind.


She wakes to warn her mother

but finds her slumbering peacefully


so she sits on the floor beside her

and cries


Wondering if she should have paid more attention to

Her ancestor, Thayumanavar’s gods.


She will one day ask her mother.


When all is said and done

Her mother knows everything


And yet, she loses her mother anyways?


Perhaps it was not a loss but simply a farewell for now

She will think one day


And hopefully,

she is right.


Time’s up. This time I mean it.


The boy turns back in his chair to face forward.


Where did you go in the silence?


Why do people read?

You pick up a book.

Do you expect adventure?

Do you expect anything?


Come here,

Come to me

And read these lines


But come to me a blank slate.


History is in the faces of people.


Stay here

And listen for a while

As I recount mine.


Are you coming?


I draw a mask

For a little boy and little girl

Who are seeking the masks of god


If only Joe would guide them.


A memory of a time long past

When Jo the Artist was a cruel mistress

And everything was simple


The Egyptian sand rose up to meet them

Their bodies left to rot in the sun

The bones covered by the sand.


You will find no Greek kings or queens here


only us


Their twilight repose

spent in palaces

of sweat and blood

But never their own

Not of their own making.


I guess you can’t live by the beach forever.


I ran out

Onto the streets

of Westwood


in the dead of night



Intent on walking

All the way

To the ocean


with my wooden hands

and wooden feet


the cop car was there

as it should have been


but the little girl,

the mini-prophet and her guide

were nowhere to be found


I found myself alone

And in my confusion

My sorrow


I somehow

Managed to turn away

and return home.


Ask me someday

Why I will be

Forced to hate

Whoever embodies

That character


No matter who they are?


And I must admit

It is because

This is my Mother’s story.


The boy with the baseball cap

Became a man

Gone away now

So far away


The moment you become self-aware

Is the moment you lose yourself.


She warns her friends

As if they’ll listen.


The waspbird’s bite is contagious and poisonous.

Agni was bitten by a waspbird and then succeeded to bite her lover

While her brother, Aghori, and his lover both tried to intervene

Watching on in horror


And just like that old saying goes

Agni will never find a place

To rest her his head


A Tamil is found in all places of the world but he has no place to call his own.

His home.


I reach out with my heart

In hopes of finding something

Somewhere beyond but

My mind keeps me from

Grasping hold.


And I find myself

Hoping that maybe the next time

I rest

I will open my eyes

Into yours.


How do you explain the silence?


The feeling of so much noise

But hearing none.


When the lights

Beckon you home.


Have you ever looked up at the sky

And seen an ocean?

I know I’m not the last

Nor first person to try


The little girl protecting her treasure chest of toys

Is tricked by

A little boy

Who claims to be her

Just from another time

Another life.


Evil exists, doesn’t it?


I discovered something very dark within myself.


And Kali devours the clawing flesh

What will she find?


Walking in the shadow of the sun,

I feel you near.


I am surrounded by ghosts


The darkness creeps in.


And I am a well

Where the rain

Comes when it will


I shiver

The gaze

Above me





In the past

Where no one

Can find it

No one will

Remember it


I used to create universes

With these hands

With this mind.


You grew up.

You grew old.


I must admit

I would gladly become

The Anti-Christ

The Anti-Prophet

If it meant that there could be a heaven

Where mother could rest her feet.


We played barefooted running. In my mother’s garden, we poured water over

mud. And found roses among the weeds, which we gave to her.

Our darling. Our dear.


Or was it only me?


Streets that were not mine

Still beckon me home.


We sat and drank chai as we spoke of a Silk Road that connected our parents’ pasts

So long ago

So far away


The boy with the baseball cap became a man

Never to come home again


We all left


Screaming Mimi is the only one left

But didn’t she go to Japan?

Then I guess there is nothing left.

We’re all gone


From streets that will not remember

but still call us home.This tree will always be yours

My first love was an apple

How do you write a story?


People need a history.


This tree was mine

It was always mine

Even if it didn’t know that yet

Even if it didn’t want to be.


No one cares to hear the hungry lion



The clock is ticking



From here

I can see

It looks like

Any other building

Without the bright lights


It was enough

We played barefooted running

In my mother’s garden

We poured water over mud

And found roses

Among the weeds

We gave them to her

Our darling. Our dear.


Or was it only me?


That little lamb

Gone mad

Mad, I say


The sacrificial lamb

The lamb of the sacrifice


It ran away

Broke its leg

Or thought it had

Sobbed through that place



Calling her mother



This tree was mine.

It still is.

It is strong and steadfast.

It is my Giving Tree.

It is my mother.

And I will never stop

Trying to find its shade



This poem

Suffocates me

It makes me cry

Mad tears

Feels like someone

Has laid bare my soul

Without a thought

And I am left

Naked in the cold.

That is why

This is the end.


and the rage

gave way to

nothingness yet

even now

sometimes she smiles.


Are you in the jungle?

You’re not.

You need to grow up and act like an adult.

Get over it.


There’s no God in the heart of the jungle…

just you and me.


A woman in a white dress

Like an angel, really


She didn’t die like that though

Instead covered in a flower-printed

hospital gown


Her daughter crying

not knowing what to do

Fighting to keep from going



Her son with a few

tears in his eyes

He speaks softly



But at least

he is speaking again


I wonder if she hears



in her unwanted



They say hearing is the last

to go


So I continue speaking

long past it is time

to stop


And I know

I never will


It’s hard


Death is never easy


if only

if only


You did not exist

If you never were


This gaping wound

would be but flesh

nothing more


No more blood

or tears


No more silence

and unwanted dreams


All is devotion to the flower


It’s the end of the world

And there are children trapped in time

One is a little puppet,

The little it

He has strings

That no one can see

Except for a little girl with her little flower.


The little girl sees the little puppet

Crouching on a rock

As people pass by

Going towards or away from the end


She tries to cut the strings

But the little puppet bleeds

From his wooden surface

And suddenly the people around him,

See him, the little it,

As one of them

And become frightened.


The little puppet cries


As it has no way of moving

And protecting its flower


The little girl with her little flower

Goes away

To try to find a way to help it

Before it became anything like it

As he, the little puppet, has a flower like her.


The little girl with the little flower

Draws a line in the sand

And tries to push people across

Into the garden

But it keeps washing away

No matter how many times she draws it.


She, the little girl, is trying to save her flower

Before it gained its color


Before it became bitter

And changed in the end


She builds sandcastles

And attempts to save those she loves

By refusing to walk

Cross the line

That is meant for her


The little girl

Finds herself in fire

But she cannot burn


When the little girl walks towards the sands’ end

Her little flower creeps closer still

Wanting to become one with the ocean

One with the sand

The little girl quickly takes hold of her flower

And runs off away from the water’s edge.


She can never walk into the garden

Though she can see it

And when the end comes

Her mother has to say good-bye

To the little girl

But before she goes

She offers to take her flower

And tend to it.


It becomes the garden

And then the little girl

Can walk in.


But often the little flower returns to the soil

The little girl dug for it

And each time the little girl blinks

It disappears to become the garden

And reappears to stand/grow beside her.


She is the garden


She is in fire


She is trapped at the shore

Waiting for the end to come


She is the little flower


She is the garden


She is the little puppet


Or rather

The garden is she/her

And the little puppet’s strings

Can never be cut

Not by her

As it chose its fate long ago

(Or it was chosen?)

It refused to walk into the garden

Offered to have a place in fire

So that it could have its story.


The house of learning is in ruins

And everything the little puppet stayed for is gone

It’s the End of the World


The Monster at the End of the Book

Is also the one who wrote the first letter


All of it


It is the little flower


And the little girl finally

Sits quietly before/beside/behind/below/above it

Closes her eyes           and opens her ears

To the sound of the universe


She sees the Creator Destroyer

End and Beginning

And cries out


She bows before the little flower

Her eyes cannot look away


She knows that all is devotion to the little flower

That is the way

And that she is the lost one

The damned

And thus she begins to break the cycle


The little flower

Dreams of a milk ocean

And a thousand upon thousand headed snake

Upon which it rests

And begins/continues/finishes contemplating

The next universe/world/Being

That will glorify it next.


I hold her


up against the wall


and ask her again

“Where is it?”


She stares at me

in shock,


her hands

reach up

to grab mine


my hands


betraying her

by circling around

a necklace





against her skin

betraying me

with its small


jerking moments


Her feet

which were dangling

in the air

a second ago



Scrabbling against the


struggling to find purchase

till she gets hold

and with her legs

pushes her body up


Her face neck

moves up with her


Her face is closed to me


Once so open and filled with laughter


She is silent now

Doesn’t make a sound


I think the sound of her

own laughter

the sound of her

own voice

of herself


would frighten and confuse



She stares blankly at me





I stare back


it’s wet

I’m crying

tears are dripping

down my face


Then Blondie walks in

with a starbucks

drink in hand

and looks around


I follow my impulse

I quickly withdraw

my hands

she falls to the floor

but does not crumble


instead she stands

pushing herself off

the floor

with her legs alone


As we walk by

her and I


she cries


She’s got fox ears.


Look at the little fox.


That’s what happens

When you get bit by a fox.


I had hand-me-down clothes

hand-me-down tastes

and hand-me-down boys.


They come and they go

That’s what people do

I always thought

He would choose me

But he was like everyone else

Or did he become like that?


He was the final proof

All that was left

Was for me to finally

Accept my place in the world


He chose you over me

Everyone eventually does

When presented with the decision

Who could but turn away

From me?


I thought he would be different


But then again

I always think the person

I am with

Will be different


I am always

proven wrong

I am the bastard

The bitch

I am the



What good is my bastard bitch dog

self to anyone?

Sometimes I wonder.

Someone called me bastard. A real one.

Someone called me bitch.

Someone called me dog.


They didn’t have to

I already knew those things

About myself


I already knew I was worthless

I don’t want to go there

Don’t want to dwell


I already knew he wouldn’t choose me

He wouldn’t stay

When push came to shove

Even he was like that


Only interested in me

For what he could gain


Then he met her

His bright light


Though I was still there

In the darkness

His muse

I remained

My pain

My silence

My tears


He created


From all of them


Yet in the end

He fell from me

Or did he fly?

On angels’ wings

He found love

In her


In her


He found his equal


Not in me


Even though

I was there



Even though

I still am


How can I?


He made his choice


The brightness

yellow red orange



which most likely will






What am i?


not even the darkness

is me as it is still



He chose beauty

Intelligence creative

wild thing


over that

over thing


he chose you

over me

Can you feel the spark?


The jungle does not care

Who you are

Who you were


It whispers

“Will you follow me

to the place

where there is

no God?”


mother you are the sun the moon

the stars you are all and none you are

here and not you are flowers the

grass the water that pours

you are


mother sleep stay but don’t go

dreams run wild here chase them

away my eyes aren’t right i can’t

see your moon the sun is so bright


i never wanted this sky this sun and its brightness i

never wanted this ocean but it was yours so much yours

i no longer know to leave


my hell was your heaven and somewhere in-between i forgot

the heat the cold and remembered you that is why i stayed

and always will


i may remember home but there is no getting back there now

it is not mine never was and never will be i was not meant

to rest in those days


the little girl with her flower must learn it is okay to be alone

her flower will carry on


i can’t look in your eyes they are not what they once were

no friendship reflects from them did it ever?


it’s hard to breathe the same air as you i must remind myself

that i must or else perish but somehow i wish for you to know

this feeling


no air no one just me just these thoughts just these tears

which will not fall after all your words were probably not

even yours


just a passing fancy this friendship like a dress you wear once

then return i am sorry no one told me i was the wrong size

color age no one


no one told me to be wary of you


except you did with your words your actions your every

snide remark i should have seen them for the warnings

they were


you weren’t born with thorns you chose to speak with

barbed tongue you chose the knife you chose this noose of

mine it won’t be me


and just as you told me this morning you can go you don’t

have to stay but i won’t wait for you to depart i will just let

myself out and go


people always leave this time i will go


No one wants to hear about the wanderer


Boys don’t cry

look at his evil eyes.


and lost boys like me are free.


the figure of a bullet

that went

Bam Bam Bam


I couldn’t save her…

For all my efforts.


She’s gone.


The things that people willingly forget.

She became the well for them all.

Those memories

She wept

No one left

to listen to her recount

those nightmares

she once lived

so long ago

Now all that is

Left for her

is to forget.


There was a girl. She knelt to the floor every night.

Hands clasped tight, often enough. To pray. She prayed

for safety and love and for her family to never change.

For no one to die.


And yet here she is. With a dead mother. With her family irrevocably changed.

She just wishes and hopes for the days when she could lie down

and curl up beside her mother and simply breathe.


The first one shot me down

To the ground.


I heard you buggered off to England.


I discovered something very dark within myself.


So you’ve said…

You might want to be Batman, but really you’re just the Hulk.


It can be quiet.


It is my history and I’ll write it if I want.


After all, blank pages tell the story of an unwritten life.


I am surrounded by ghosts.


I give up.


You win.


What does it mean to grow old? To age?

What is this wicked curse?

To take us unwillingly

Back to the ground,

to the dirt?


Ashes to ashes

dust to dust




I would like it

if we could meet



They say heaven is a state of mind


My heaven consists of

your kind smile

and a garden

out back

filled with flowers

you tend.


Dad is snoring

He mutters to himself in his sleep

He says ‘God’

I wonder if in his slumber

he is able to see


See what or whom?


Joe the Liar

keeps trying

but it’s too late

for even him



his wooden hands and feet


as his mind goes this way and that


his soul

runs out and finds himself


but it is too late


he stares up at his younger self,

Joe the Writer,

the Artist,

all the labels are his

and always will be


though he would prefer they were never there


Joe the Liar is wearing his jacket

as always

but that day something in him



and though he had


stepped aside

and allowed himself

to become wood


not himself

not Joe


he finds himself yearning

for the days of old

when he was simply



he catches his hands

on his beloved jacket

his soul

and in a moment of frenzy

tears it off


never to wear it again


even if he must write

he will not

debase himself

he will not

taint his soul

with the orders

of others.


How can being given divine revelation taint someone, let alone their soul?


I am




Is it


to still

have dreams




and the like?


to admit

to not

not done






I don’t want

to leave

just yet


But I am

not sure

if I


to stay





I wish

to be

an oak



so I

will never

be cut



I dream

of willows


in the wind


they cry




for more




bending so



they become

one with

the dirt


their roots

run deep


their branches



I want

to be

an oak



so I can









Joe dreams


the mini-prophet

whose tongue

had become a snake’s


she is whole



she smiles

she dances


but most of all


she Sees


Joe the Liar

he dreams


makes him



the difference


reality and not


is there one?


makes him



there is


you see

there is


a ball


(it grows)

in his brain


it grows


he closes

his eyes


the mini-prophet

closes hers


and opens


to the universe


come home again, one day

when I am gone


You don’t remember or pretend not to. I play along as I love you. But it hurts. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally.


Let me confess to you. Let me shout it down. Let the world know.


I am the scars of yours. I am the knife. I am the blood. The bleeding.


Sometimes I wonder if it will ever stop. Sometimes I realize it will not.


Must I go away? Far away? (Like the boy with the baseball cap left me. Like Lise & KK walked away.) Must I leave? I want to give you peace.


Peace you will probably never feel as long as I am here to prick at your subconscious memories that left or were blocked out long ago.


I need to remind myself to breathe. But then I look. Fall back down. Can I say RUN? No. It’s too late.


Little girl, I’ll keep running back to you. Attempting to. Smile. Broken. Let me hug you. Let me speak. Let me listen.


Don’t go. But no one ever listened.


The call. The flight. I open the door. Beige trench coat on (my soul). Silver chain on. Boy with the baseball cap. He’s there. RUN.


I open my mouth. No sound. MUTE. Broken body. I will forever wonder. RUN. SCREAM. But most of all. Don’t break.


I am not sure if I did.


It hurts. Your words. Like silence. Or worse. Erasure of me. Erasure of my history. Erasure of my truth.


I learn while looking at the world. I learn to stop. Dreaming. Hoping. The like. I just wish to curl up and close my eyes. Sleep. Go away.


I will not let anything stop me. I know. I am too old for this.


My eyes burn from unshed tears. The world is yours. No matter. Nothing will change that. And I… I cease. I fade to the background.


That was where I always was. Why am I mischief? Why am I poison?


If I must be silent. If I must fade away. OR rather stay invisible. Unseen.


You make it hard to breathe. This world. This air. Oppresses me. There is a weight on my chest on my shoulders on my head.


I wade into the water. The ocean. Weights notwithstanding. I hear you mother. I feel you. LIAR. RUN. I wish I heard. I wish I felt.


I’ll keep walking. Into the waters. The ocean. Let the waters rise above me. My body. My head. Let me drown. Let me sleep. Let me. STOP.


I’m done.


I quit.


I think it’s time…




Have the world.


I never wanted it in the first place.

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