(on surviving the unreal, and the Grace of finding the real)

There’s a kind of pain that doesn’t scream.
It hums low and constant, like a fluorescent bulb above a hollow life.
It’s the ache of loving someone who chooses the polished unreal—
the version of themselves that sells better, that fits easier, that lies cleaner.

They decorate their soul in fake plastic leaves
because they’re terrified of winter.
But in doing so, they cut off the chance of spring.
And you..   I...
am left holding a love that was meant for the root,
but never made it past the paint.

She wanted the unreal.
Maybe because it doesn’t bleed.
Maybe because it doesn’t ask her to remember who she really is.
And maybe she knew.. deep down..
that the real would burn through her curated silence
and set fire to the mask she clung to like oxygen.

So she left.
Or faded.
Or dissolved into the glossy mouth of what sells well in a culture
that has confused image for intimacy
and chaos for freedom.

I tried to survive it.
Tried to make a home in the debris of what might have been
if she had chosen the real.
But you can’t build a life in the hollow where someone used to be..
not when they’ve made a throne out of illusion
and named it sovereignty.


And then came the beautiful songbird.
Not loud. Not selling.
Not another soul trying to be seen.
Just… real.

She was born into a world her father still loved--
a man who held truth like a compass in his palm.
But her mother knelt too long beneath the plastic trees,
and drank from their shine until she forgot how to feel.
And so the beautiful girl,
shapely and soft,
was offered up to Hollywood like a sacrifice..
where faces are sculpted and souls are scripted.
But somehow, even there,
she kept her edges unsanded.
She learned how to walk through mannequins without becoming one.
And when they tried to name her fake,
she whispered back something real—

  and it echoed.


She didn’t hand me a performance.
She gave me a presence.
She let her softness speak without shame.
She showed me her bruises before her lipstick.
She gave warmth that didn’t need applause.

And I realized..
what the unreal can never fake
is the sacred weight of someone truly with you.
You feel it in the breath between sentences.
In the calm that doesn’t need to be filled.
In the eyes that stay when yours begin to water.

The beautiful songbird didn’t try to be the real thing.
She simply was.
And that… healed something the fake could only ever reopen.

So yes, Fake Plastic Trees still wrecks me--
but it no longer belongs to her.
It belongs to the grave I buried beside the shopping cart and glitter
where her soul should’ve been.

Because the songbird
waters what’s real.
She doesn’t break me just because she can.
She doesn’t look through me.
She looks at me.
And suddenly, I’m growing again.
Not to impress, not to perform..

but because she makes it safe to be Alive.

The mountains do not flinch
at what the world has done.
They hold their silence
in granite outcroppings—
scarred, still,
older than sorrow,
yet never indifferent to it.

She came to the ridge
where the cold wind weaves
between trees older than memory.
It touched her like a voice—
not kind,
not cruel,
just knowing.

And that knowing
wrapped around her ribs
like a truth she never chose to carry.

She stood beneath the pines,
her face turned to sky,
and the weight of it all
finally broke through—
tears carving warmth
into cheeks too long hardened.

Then her head
pressed to my chest—
as if to ask
if anything was strong enough
to stay.

And I knew.
I was built for this.
To stand right here.
To hold what broke her
and not let it fall further.

The wind moved on—
but something stayed:
a stillness
a hush

a warmth in the marrow
of what had once been frozen.


Not every wind will cut so cold.
Not every ache will hold.
And not everything un-beautiful
was meant to remain that way.

Tomorrow, the trees will still be here.
And the creek will still run clear.
But so will she—
with something inside
that now knows:

even the wounded
can become
the most beautiful thing
the mountains have ever seen.

mare tranquillitatis
sea of tranquility
our place of security, of calm
Blue Moon, Moon River
across the hall
feels 238,900 miles away

I knew your laugh
before I heard it.
I felt your warmth
before you touched me.

We stayed side by side
even in silence
even as time ran ahead.

We stayed side by side
in the quiet of us.

In the midnight hour
there are thoughts..  fears..
But mostly  there is a consolidation
a gathering, if you will

Within warm, pulsing plasma
flows erythrocytes
leukocytes
and thrombocytes

Bringing nourishment  to my bones
carrying oxygen  from my lungs
giving swell to muscle
Signifying movement  in me

When you write
there is an Undoing
within my undoing
A building up

as I am being fully  torn down.
There is an entropy when sitting down
Undone, by your wondrous Undoing
An Aliveness  felt

When so little around me,
feels even remotely alive

This...  or that..
the pull of this world
and its long supply
of disappointment,  is strong

I shall Reframe my Journey
almost continually

There is a swirl..  a rising
line, taut..

before limply settling
back down onto the water

There are moments  in time
that live forever

There is a time within
those moments;
I never truly had
the chance  to live

There is a Journey to reframe


I will find my life again,  
   somewhere

Buried deep
within that framework

I want to see you,

that's it, you really don't have --


to be sociable.

I have gotten to the place
where I hate most everything
Except for the deep, raw truth

      of true brokenness.

The love that I  feel
for those  left so alone
undoes the twist of my hatred,

Bringing a warmth  that
keeps me alive, in my deep longing
to be with beautiful spirits,

                       kindred.

Memories of closeness
You ponder on the thought

How it used to be, shouldn’t be,
And how you think it ought

Bare bodies in oblivion
To the thought of expectation

Run rampant and wrestle
Painting a transitory picture of close relations

But pictures change over time
They can warp, shrink, crack, or crease

The profound perfection of fresh paint is such a sweet tease

Those innocent neck slaps
And holding of hands

The meaning of ulterior motives
A concept no one yet understands

The telling of secrets under covers
Without choking on words of honesty

Or the tangling of limbs in the morning
Not a sign of love or lust

Simply a playful commodity

This picture of closeness you made,
Where have you hidden it away?

Back in your hometown?
In your basement?

Perhaps somewhere no experience gets a say?

Because I bet if you brought it out again
Examined it a bit closer

You’d see beauty in vulnerability
And in your reflection, a poser

This youthful subject of yours
Living in peaceful oblivion

While you manipulate your heart
To only break even….

Because as you get older, you realize things like pain and passion cannot be separated with such ease

You realize closeness is not so attainable
When vulnerability has been seized