First Breath – Last Breath

Last night, I fell into a poem
one that made my heart expand so much, that I felt at times as if I was suffocating
on dreams
on fantasy
on truth
on reality
on everything that I keep hidden, and everything that I give away.
Last night, I fell into a dream
one that filled my heart so much, I felt that I could finally breathe
because everything that I give was finally accepted
and everything hidden was finally exposed
and I was raw
and I was beautiful…
and I still am, today.

Calling Bad Unkl Sista’s production of ‘First Breath – Last Breath a show is an offense. Calling it a performance doesn’t even begin to ring true to what it actually is. If one calls it an experience, they’re getting closer, but beyond everything, the closest I can come to describing it would be – a gift. An offering.
If you’re fortunate enough to have been there for it last night, perhaps you know what I’m trying to say – or perhaps you feel something else entirely. What you let it do, how far you let it go, can be your gift to yourself, or you can simply just watch and be transfixed by whatever it is *you* choose to give to yourself.
It’s entirely up to you how far in you want to go.

Anastazia Louise – stazL – and the amazing people who collaborated with her on this have created nothing less than an atmosphere, an experience, a…
Hell, just go yourself, and FOR yourSelf. Only two more showings, today at 2 & 8pm. Z-Space.

Details at

Simple Beauty


Day in, day out, up at 5:30am again, out the door at 6:00 to move my car – no too many people out on a post-rain morning like this but the crackheads and me. I start driving and on the way remember that I still have almost $5.00 in my paypal account – a fortune these days, but a fortune that goes fast…

Groggy in this hellish yet beautiful hour, but in a special kind of mood; life is turning around. I not only feel it, but it’s there, in front of me, smiling and calling and just looking for my answer.


Always yes.

Things are coming my way… the way they should and do when I do something as simple as switch my heart around and believe, *know* that they will turn around. I think the magick is in far past just believing, as that always leaves room for doubt. It’s the feeling of knowing that makes all the difference, and simply taking action. Simple.

Not easy.

This past Thursday I stopped by the Vau de Vire rehearsal at Cell Space, to say hello to good friends, and to get out of my damned apartment which, after I move my car, wait for the time I need to and return, has become something of a glorified jail cell, one that locks from the inside. The struggle to leave is immense, the reasons, few – but on that day, that Thursday past, I made it out – and that’s all that needed to happen.

I take a seat for a few minutes; watch Shannon work on choreography with all of the insanely beautiful & talented Vau de Vire folk as much as I could (it’s a love/hate relationship – I love them for their stretchy, bendy, strong and insanely sexy ways – and hate them for the same out of utter envy.) and then see Mike across the floor, taking notes. I give Mike a hug, (Gods, that felt good – so long since I’ve felt the warmth of touch) the smile on my face in seeing him, feeling an old friends arms around me stretch the muscles that I so seldom have use for these days, save for the rare occasion in front of the mirror where I try to remember what it feels like when it’s genuine, coming from my heart instead of forced to my lips as an exercise…

He says that he and Shannon have been talking – want to know if I’m up for performing with them at Symbiosis as a Human Statue. I try to contain my joy, try to maintain *some* control but realize that it’s an exercise in futility and act like a little girl who actually *did* get a pony for her birthday. Without thinking of logistics I readily accept, already feeling like I’m on my way home again – the home where the heart is, not the walls behind which I pretend to live. The home where when I walk in there are smiles to greet me instead of a room barren of life, of warmth, of welcome.

I have no idea how I’ll make it to Symbiosis, a three day festival a few hundred miles south, but I’m sure I can figure out something… I need to. I’m certain that I can get a ride, but I have no tent, sleeping bag, or anything that a proper camper should have – it was all given away or sold long ago when I got my first running motorhome. I could take my motorhome, but how would I afford fuel and that one small part I need for the carburetor? Answers with more questions are all that I possess. Still, I have to make it – more for my heart and spirit than anything else. All I can do is trust. All I can do is *know* that somehow, some way, it will work out.

Two days later I get an email from someone named Bascom. Seems that he & his girlfriend are looking for a third to busk with. Someone taller, someone with a voice, someone seasoned on the streets who doesn’t have the encumbrance of trying to gather a crowd & work a pitch with razor blades hidden in his cheeks. It will be a far cry from a human statue, but it’s back to what I love – what I need; the smiles of strangers & passerby, a special gift that I know how to give them – reaching out of the common sights, the magick of wonder, and, even if just for a moment, the feeling that they are someone special, someone outside of the crowd. Even in stillness, even in silence I could do this, give them a gift of my energy, that they would hopefully carry in their hearts instead of their minds, that could just possibly bring splendor to a commonplace day, beauty to the mundane, remind them how to *see* the majesty of this world, instead of only looking at it through jaded eyes…


I drove towards the Mission for the sole reason that my car was already pointing that way, and to celebrate recent events decided to buy a vanilla latte from Peet’s Coffee with part of my final five dollars – one of the few coffee drinks that I’ll spurge on, one that I haven’t had in months. On my way inside of Peet’s I notice a homeless man sitting in front of Safeway, wet, cold, in between two bags that look like they weigh a ton dry. I get my latte, then thinking of how even something small can make all the difference in the world, with my last two dollars I buy a regular coffee, fill my pocket with some sugar packs and a cup with some half & half, and put a cardboard cup thing on mine so I don’t mix them up. I walk outside into the wind & wet & deliver the cup of hot coffee to him along with the sugar & cream.

His smile and gratitude was worth far, far more than that last two dollars.

Getting back to the warmth of my car, I notice that I had somehow, somewhat impossibly, mixed the cups up and that he ended up with my treasured vanilla latte. I look out my window, see him cupping it with both hands, taking gentle sips, the absolute pleasure on his face… and share a chuckle with the Universe.

After all, it’s simple – who am I to argue with what is truly meant to be?


New Day


Saturday, April 21, 2012 :


It’s a tight game, this. Making sure I have the dregs of gasoline left in my tank to avoid the street sweepers; get out of the neighborhood I was put in and get back. Today, however, I’ll make it – but tomorrow or the next day? Yet to be seen. Still, I have faith. No reason to worry until… well, no reason to worry at all. I either make it or I don’t, like so many other things. If I agonized over the challenges in life I would never sleep again – I’d be an anxious rattle-boned boy, or more likely the remains of one tossed to the Sea.

This life, though nothing special to me, is mine to destroy or cherish – and I’ve done the destruction. One question that will never be answered in this life without a beginning is if I believed in it, if I knew where I came from, if I knew who my mother was – would I have valued my life more? Been more careful with it, instead of searching for the subconscious suicide? Or is this my purpose, into so many hells and out the other side, and bring that wisdom with me to help others in some way? So many questions…


The Sun rises, warms the back of my neck through the car window.

It’s always a new day…


I was offered death on a silver platter, on the house, free of questions or guilt or blame; the setting complete with cocktail forks and a shell cracker to be sure that every bit of its marrow and juice was consumed, to pick clean the memories and every bit of what was and could have been so that nothing remained but the carnage and shattered bones of a life that had become empty. It was a gift that would have been so simple to accept – an easy way out of something that had become lackluster and plain –

There was one mistake made though in the almost perfect set-up. It would have been far, far too easy to do. Some said I was courageous, which I possibly now understand.

Perhaps the courage was in turning it down. I have an unquenchable thirst for adventure, for life, for proving the impossible possible, for realizing dreams – yet with all of the meticulous preparation there was no beverage served to satiate my craving.

Possibly it was believed by the hosts that death would have been enough of a voyage in itself to entice me. Perhaps the Powers That Be, The Great Big Ooh-Ahh, The Universe, The One And All were giving me a way out of what’s coming, and a fantastic justification at that.  I’m certain that one day that final journey *will* be enough and I’ll cease this struggle for life – but that can only come after all the things I wish or need to do while alive have been undertaken.


The fifteenth day of the second month in my new apartment. I’ve become to view it as a jail cell that locks from the inside, offering peace, offering comfort, but this is not who I am. It is with unease that I call upon the words again, beckoning to them, encouraging them to be my friends again, as where I need to go inside is a place that I inevitably go alone.

The Search.

It takes everything I am, everything I have been through, every tiny bit of strength that has been cultivated over my years, and yet I don’t believe that this will be enough. It will, however, be better than the first time, be better than when I attempted to do it myself, as this time I have hired a search company to assist me – I had little choice, although payments for the fee will leave me destitute for the next four months. It’s either live for this time barely able to survive due to lack of food and the herbs I need, with some air of hope for finding my birth mother, or it gets put off longer and longer with the possibility of never getting done at all, never having the questions answered that I’ve been asking since one day as a child I found my adoption decree hidden in my parents things and taught myself how to ask them. Either I do it now, and with the help, or it never gets done and I’m forever left wondering, forever remaining incomplete, a shadow of who I could be.

At the autopsy they would find a heart with a hole in it and no guts.



Though it is Spring, the branches of my heart are barren, wanting for the tender meat of the fruit to sink my teeth into, the succulent juices of “I love you” dripping from my lips, the shine of the tender meat that would appease my hunger mirrored in my eyes and smile as I look into hers…

but who would want this man?

Bruised, tainted, scarred, both outside and in, yet still and forever an incurable romantic, who eternally dreams of what could be.


for too long

All the words that I wrote then rings just as true today. I’m praying that I get to write something different soon…

“I sensed my loss
before I even learned to talk”
and yes, this
I know
for too long
kept away from those places
in me
that could feel
keeping it all in my head
profound ignorance for what it said
to my heart
How close am I now?
Is there something missing in her?
can you take two missing pieces,
put them together –
and transform a world?
The sorrow that has hidden in silence
for so long
now has gained a knowledge
of it’s voice.

Early to bed
early to rise
a cup of coffee
a cigarette
wet hair
the morning sun streaming
through the clouds
silence has a sound.
(Would I know her voice?)


“Um, hi. I was wondering if there might be a woman with the maiden name of Stenerson there.”
“Yes, this is she. Who is this, please?”
more silence. A question I have been wondering for all of my life. a question that I might
finally be able to answer.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“I’m called Casey, but that doesn’t matter anymore. We knew each other very briefly thirty one years ago, but I doubt that you have forgotten me. I don’t know your face, I don’t know your voice, and I don’t know your life, but I’ve never been able to stop thinking about you. The three months that we had together so long ago I can’t remember, either, but it has affected every relationship in my life, the way that I related to others around me, my expectations, and my fears. There has been a profound pain, an excruciating sense of loss inside of me all of my life that in some ways, I was able to ignore, in some ways I was able not to feel, but it always showed itself in my actions. Now I want it to be gone, and I think that you can help me.”

More silence. Her turn this time.

“This is your son, and I need to meet my mother.”

I don’t want this pain anymore.