Because all experiences are valuable.

Friday, September 9, 2016

The Deal

who made this deal that I would be in this skin for this life
thin lines of grease paint ran off my fingertips into the cracks in the concrete
as I sat there with my overpriced tea and orange confection of unhealthiness
overhearing, no listening openly,
to the sales pitch of an acting class hustler,
guaranteeing this poor bastard he would be a star,
dropping the Denzels and the Tom Cruise,
talking Walking Dead and Lee Daniels.
It was a great moment when he dared to correct her...
all wrapped in her uninformed costume of middle age
and he all of 20...
but he knew to correct her when she said
say the script says you play a preacher,
are you going to be an Al Sharpton,
are you going to be a Jesse Jackson,
or a Martin Luther...
he said, Martin Luther King, Jr?
Honest to God did she not know the difference between the two?
Honest to God did she not see he could play whomever he wants,
if he wants,
not just black preachers. I was appalled for him,
but that's just me thinking I have any right to think anything,
when I don't,
because all I have is this skin I am in...
but I do know better than that.
When she told you to get over yourself
about roles you said you would not take,
I had to leave
before she turned you completely into a whore.
Keep your morals, keep your dreams,
Best of Luck to you, kid.
I'll buy a ticket...
hell, I already did. It's called Starbucks.

Thursday, September 8, 2016


In ruined vineyards,
It is possible it is better to be alone,
Es possible esta mejor ser solamente uno,
hiding insecurities and unchanging lacks of judgement,
beneath the heavy hair of wanton vines,
between the sighing rows of perspiring leaves,
escaping the lucious desires of grapes begging to be picked,
mingling inside the mouth- the jaded
richness of old wine and 
the bitter sour of new wine that will never be pressed.

Nothing is beyond the imagination of tastes,
Even the dying man- condemned-
salivating his solitary last moments away
in recall of divine repasts,
and vintages too pregnant with joie de vivre
to be forgotten.

Acres of sunflower heads
dried of their crowns and beauty,
food for crows and old women,
fit companions enough for the
shadows that stalk the sunset,
lengthening their presence toward the silvered olives,
sinking low into soft chairs,
in the days when
nothing is left to be done,
all consigned to the care of the seasons,
Es possible en la nieve lavarse.
Es possible en la lluvia dormir. 

July 2016

This was written on the train between Rome and Florence, as we passed miles and miles of vineyards and sunflowers in Tuscany, and one vineyard in particular was left in ruin...which I only glimpsed for seconds at 225 mph. But that is life, after all, going by so fast, and some of it in ruins. 

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Every Day That is Left

Showered with dust
from fleet bee left-behinds-
his crop-dusting feet,
so unwitting and wild,
the field a mad riot,
sowed at last year's tea dance,
floral progeny bow to the wind
and make pacts,
to live full this one Summer,
to bloom bright until death,
to make love,
like a flower and bee-
every day that is left.

for Melanie A. and her bees

Sunday, April 3, 2016


I have bled in all the colors,
Black disaster, glory green,
Red ribbons on the church doors,
Yellow ribbons on the trees,
and Blue ribbons for the winners,
few and far between.

I have bled the same for ages,
petty highs when life was sweet,
orange shirts to mark the abject,
violet bruises on their cheeks.
One white sheet to lay your head on,
rescue comes in sleep.

Sunday, January 3, 2016


We would like to think we stride through life,
but for the most part we crawl,
dragging ourselves daily
through force of will,
seeking to generate enough lift
to overcome the gravity of our situation.

We have all flown at one time or another,
pervasive memory
imprinting us with soaring beliefs
we wear like black and white tattoos of lines,
written in the script of ferocity,
the block print of survival.
A graphical representation of times
our fathers tossed us high in the air,
our mothers hugged us near and laughed
at our antics,
and all the times we won-

The anxious battle within...
The tedious battle without...

The absolute marvel of the human mind's capacity to endure.

Monday, December 28, 2015

The Lineup of Ghosts

Childhood prepares us for this,
The wet, the grey,
The last heartbeats of December,
The sound of wind and water
through barebranch and pinetop.

It need not be said
To hold tight to what you love,
Only to be added
That we will all be called to
The lineup of ghosts,
To pick out the saintly from the slothful
and take our own place,
With only ourselves to know
Where we belong.

Friday, November 20, 2015

Lost Mermaid

It is hard not to go where the world takes you,
the blood in the water is compelling,
and full of frenzy to be a shark,
voracious feeding is obligatory.

I have lost my taste for chaos,
I wish I could swim for the exit,
but all signs point to the roundness of the globe.
I am swimming in circles,
making water angels with my arms,
singing songs to myself and to those
who would listen,
stroke after stroke,
mile after mile,
until my eyes fill with waves no longer.

T. Sylace
praying for all people who are threatened in this world,
may you never know what it is like to be terrorized.