What more is there

to my introduction

than a deconstruction

of the muse that got me here

to begin with?

The blues,

that after being spoken

can leave a man lipless

in struggle

to redefine

what his heart just told his mind

that told his wrist

that fingered a fine line

between metaphor and explanation.

Now tell me,

in this excavation

of thought,

of rhythm and rhyme,

if there is a time

when we feel elated

to see the lyrical dust settle

into discernible dirt.

And oh-my-god, the rush

of a perfectly penned dilemma


an instant choke,

because it seems

every piece was fated

to diffuse

an aching muse

and reinvigorate

the notion

that we've got nothing to lose.

We are Art personified

into crews

of lyrical journeyman

hellbent on burning

the bridges that link our yearning to feel

to our learning to heal

with each clinical piece.

And it's almost a Biblical peace

that's achieved,

when you spill your guts out

on a whimsical sheet.

And flimsy or not,

these are MY precious thoughts

to be treasured

or torn apart;

Either way,

I am loving this art.

So here I am,

more defined by a random poem

than any bio

could ever conjure.

Pardon me

while I saunter

to the next open space

so I may spill my Spirit

all over the place...

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