Confessions of an Ordinary Pilgrim
Neither cloistered nor clustered.
The desire for holiness: Moments
of rest to break in and break through
mundane, humdrum existence.
Neither carved nor crafted.
Modern idols are far more sly,
blindly lying in plain sight,
crowding the silence—covered
by good enough intentions.
Admittedly, the rhythmic practice
is romanticised—technique
over the purpose woven in.
Realization only comes
from the laying down. Union
is not acquired—it is uncovered.
Yes, Yes, and Amen
Resting in open hands are every shred,
every morsel of every sincere YES:
thrown with care into the heavens.
Each act of surrender, no matter
how insignificant, showers down
on me with wonder. I consent not
to grasp each fragment, foolishly
believing this time, this time,
I have control of scattered graces.
Little did I know, this confetti crafted
with submission was heralding in
an invitation to a party of a lifetime.
Adventures in Suffering
I’m more keen to mythologize
the pain, instead of pathologize it.
I’m more content gamboling
from one island to another,
which I’ve aptly named intoxication,
than reaching the shores of Ithaca.
Isn’t it enough to be a proud war hero?
I cling to the fiction: health of home
is trivial compared to the spirited sea.
But, O, does my soul cry out for
ease in a Faithful, Familiar Harbor.
This rest, I’m assured, is vital—
even the sun has to die daily
so everything grounded can live on.
The Second Half
I didn't know
I was here until I got here.
These days, I glance more backward,
barely recognizing
the soul’s gaze—who was me.
So much effort spent
deconstructing and dismantling—
denying each stone in the foundation.
Even so, I still carry the weight,
though not as heavy as it once was—
the burden now partnered by years.
Time, assuredly, transfers
only what is true.
I'm happy to live this long,
now in the infancy of my own knowing,
still expectant with remembrance.
On Silence, A Sonnet
I have forgotten its vitality,
That necessary guide, ceaseless Polestar,
So gently guiding my soul to Center.
Yet, I recoil from this refinery,
Knowing that in the moment's vast descent,
All anxiety and absurdity,
Surging and crashing through the surface deep,
Will completely rupture the stress, tension,
Of all my dispensable distractions.
My calloused self has garnered this useless;
These moments were just wasted time to me.
But, past the dissonance, I find my Breath;
The paradox becomes my very Life:
To simply be still and be remembered.
Our European Vacation
While we sauntered
through the City of Lights,
executive orders were signed.
Shells hammered Persian streets.
At the open café, a girl
with purple streaks lit a cigarette.
That noxious smoke— I, unaccustomed,
paid it no mind.
Nothing could truly bother me here.
Later, gazing up at Gaudí’s divine spires,
floodwaters swallowed Texas,
devouring foundations and breaths.
We drifted into the cathedral,
into this modern Holy of Holies.
The blushing lights slid and bowed
with every profane step we took.
Before long, the distant, dull anxieties
dissolved into wonder and awe.
The first movie I ever saw in a theater
was The Land Before Time.
My aunt—the fun one—took me,
back before she moved to The Land of Steady Habits.
No birthday occasion,
no holiday in sight—
just a morning when she rose
and declared, We need an adventure.
Merely four years old—
I don’t recall the significance of the silver screen.
What has lingered long
is how it felt to be freely there.
I barely remember the short car ride.
The tacky theater floors are fresh in my mind.
The fate of Littlefoot’s mother has faded.
I can still taste the Coca-Cola nectar as if it were yesterday.
What stories will stay etched in my children’s minds?
Will it be the Disney trip we splurged on?
Or, will it be a simpler time, when we went
wandering for laughter and sticky fingers?
It was suspended in the middle of the gas station,
like a birthday piñata:
candy-apple red,
insistent with shimmer,
promotional Coca-Cola decals—
the kind of jackpot no kid expects to cash,
especially when your father slipped inside
only for a Diet Mountain Dew.
My father filled out the entry form.
He was like that—
believing in luck with low risk.
The winning call came on a Tuesday,
telling us to circle back
and claim the impossible odds—
just in time for those long golden hours.
Next thing I knew,
with one fatherly shove,
I was coasting down a mountain,
no helmet,
no real plan,
just the handlebars shaking slightly
in my less-than-confident grip.
I must have carved
a thousand circles in the earth,
tracing my own shadow.
No GPS.
No destination.
All this with brakes you activated
by going backward—
a feature you didn’t overthink
when you were young.
And now,
I wonder what it would be like
to stop and backpedal into memory—
when all I knew
was the reward of a father’s good fortune,
the breeze needling my pink arms—
when every unintentional bruise
was brushed off
like summer dust.
I’m not sure how I got here.
Just yesterday,
I witnessed a cute crime—
a broken toy submerged in the toilet,
a misdemeanor only understood by a toddler.
Yesterday, I was the DJ
to a living room dance party,
air guitars and wooden spoons for microphones—
no held inhibitions
(those will come later).
And just the day before that,
I was dripping cereal and milk
in front of Saturday morning cartoons,
feet dangling off the sofa,
bowl balanced on my knees,
like it was singing—
all something sacred.
Time flies,
they say.
But memory stays—
sealed tight in pockets of my mind,
unspoiled by decades.
The hardest part
is being here,
now,
in the time I’ve been given.
It was yesterday,
but it wasn’t.
Dad dropped off the three of us—
Mom, big brother, and me—
at Clearview Mall. Dad stayed
in the Buick and took a nap.
We were there for KB Toys,
to buy the just-released
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
My brother bought all four brothers
with his well-earned cash.
I didn’t have a penny to my name,
but I did have a voice.
After much fuss and stomping
in the middle of the food court,
my mother, fatigued by my whine, caved
and demanded that my brother
gift me one of these sewer ninjas.
Reluctantly, he handed me his least favorite,
which instantly became
my chosen one—
Raph is still the coolest.
Years later, this same brother
unwrapped his first CD player.
I inherited his cassettes—
the kind you had to fix with a Bic pen.
Once again,
his leftovers became
my treasures.
I didn’t even care
that we had different tastes in music.
As the youngest,
I lived on hand-me-downs—
not only the material,
but also memories and mood.
Even now, I keep receiving
these passed-down goods.
These days, I wear
my father’s cruel hairline—
losing here,
gaining there.
I am heir to my father’s ears.
I haven’t investigated closely,
but I’m almost certain
my brother shares the inheritance.
We have both received
our father’s temper—
a secondhand flame
that can catch light
even in the strongest winds.
Grown up now, I’ve come to see
this anger’s not just wildfire—
sometimes, with the right discipline,
it can light the dark.
I’ve heard that people, in ancient times,
used to inherit property and land.
As for me,
I was given a red-masked turtle,
a cassette full of someone else’s songs,
excessive ear fuzz,
and high blood pressure.
You don’t choose what you’re given—
it’s all still a gift.
My father used to make railroad cars.
He was a welder. In his spare time, he
crafted sculptures from discarded spikes.
He took time for leisure.
When I was young, my mother, a homemaker,
crafted accidental artworks (still does) from
plastic vessels that got too close to flames.
She took no time for hobbies.
My parents are artists in their own unadorned way.
Both chose to learn the art of building something new—
something repurposed, something beautiful.
Their priceless art will never be appraised.
Seldom is it ever creation out of nothingness.
Rather, it is new creation out of the unexpected.
Things thought worthless can be transformed.
Who knew good could come from this?
Long car rides to distant vacations
and mundane commutes—
they’ve chiseled a permanence of Oldies songs
into the tablets of my mind—
songs of my father.
With nothing to claim our attention
in the long, vinyl backseat,
boredom would stretch itself out between us—
until my brother and I,
unable to resist,
summoned the ancient sport of siblings.
My father—
one hand steady at ten,
the other flailing backward,
shoulder nearly unhinged—
would threaten to pull the car over.
Other games didn’t carry such bruised consequence.
There was the familiar canon:
Twenty Questions. I Spy. Would You Rather.
At times,
I vanished into the window’s frame,
losing track of trees as they passed—
their flashing trunks dissolving
into the lean, spare lines of telephone poles.
Back then,
my only refrain was,
Are we there yet?
Now I’m at the wheel,
my own in the back,
tuning the dial, searching
for my father’s station—
half-remembered lyrics
rising, vanishing with static.
For Grandma
Her hands were like worn-out rubber bands—
one tug and it’d stay where you left it.
I know what mothballs smell like because of her.
She knit. Or was it crochet?
She made baby blankets.
She taught me how to make snapdragons talk.
Her prayers were sung in a rocking chair.
She had an old ten-inch monochrome television.
I only keep this around for you.
Her shelves were filled with Little Golden Books—
the good ones.
She was a surviving byproduct of The Depression.
She never let on to how much pain she was in.
That must be where my Dad gets it.
I stood still,
halted on the shore,
straining to recall what mattered.
What was I doing, after all?
It’s gone.
Not repressed, simply slipped between
the grains of time—the tide undone.
I have reached, in vanity,
only to come away
empty-handed.
All is hevel. Each speck of sand
sifting through my grasp.
Still—
I strive to clench my soul
around it,
whatever it may be.
Now what? What do I trust?
I stand before the open sea,
hands stretched wide.
I am met at the expanse.
You’re getting sleepy.
Daily News pulsates numbing static.
Forget what’s in the next room.
Distance labels them a monster.
Daily News pulsates numbing static.
Ignore the true devil in your midst.
Distance labels them a monster.
Press a button to love your neighbor.
Ignore the true devil in your midst.
You’re getting sleepy.
Press a button to love your neighbor.
Forget what’s in the next room.
You’re getting sleepy.
Daily News pulsates numbing static.
The glow replaces the candle’s flame.
Thoughts and prayers dissolve into the feed.
Daily News pulsates numbing static.
The scroll becomes your prayer.
Thoughts and prayers dissolve into the feed.
Algorithms whisper their silent lullabies.
The scroll becomes your prayer.
Forget what’s in the next room.
Algorithms whisper their silent lullabies.
You’re getting sleepy.