Controversy is the only winner in this battle between PRO-LIFE and PRO-CHOICE. The fact of abortion is not the true case. Choice is something we should all be free to exercise. Whether something is right or wrong is not our place to judge. Choice. I am PRO-LIFE. I hold life in the highest regards, though it is not sacred to me. Life is fragile. Life is fleeting. Life is death. I am also PRO-CHOICE. A choice, whether right or wrong, can only be made by the individual with responsibility for the consequences. No one can make that choice for them. And to retain or regain your choice or to lose your choice is your choice.

If a choice that pertains to you personally was taken from you and left unrevealed to you because ‘it was none of your right to know it’, that is the same as a lie. Lying is hiding the truth- murdering the choice of another individual. And if you believe it isn't any of the excluded party's concern, you can trust no one you meet from that moment on. Be forewarned you people with nothing to believe in.

Is there something which gives us our choices? Is there some greater wisdom that tells us when we have a choice and when we must act on instinct alone? I would like to think that my decisions are made by my mind guiding my instincts but sometimes I realize that this is not the case. How do I rule my own life? How do I control what I feel or what I think is a necessary action? I don't want to be a puppet to do something that I might regret later. I would like to be solely responsible for my actions and to be aware of the consequences before hand.

I've had these questions arise in my mind (by vehicle of someone else's thoughts for the first time) for an innumerable record: What if we don't have souls? How is it that I feel such an intimacy with death? I have felt disembodied souls; feelings that were intangible to my five senses. The realness of that (where you cannot lie to yourself any more) convinces me there is something- some part of us that carry's on past the grave. I don't know that all of these essences that have ever existed are still in existence. I don't know if the concepts of good and evil transcend death. I don't believe that these essences mean anyone living any harm. What if our consciousness (or some part of our 'being') existed on a cellular level? When we die our bodies are absorbed by any number of things depending on the 'final resting place'. These scavengers have incorporated us into them thereby enhancing their own (Wa?) essences with ours- utilizing us for fuel. If I died and were buried in raw earth or eaten by another creature, would my essence continue on in the flora and fauna, to be used over and over again? Would I inhabit this reality as a specter- an individual awareness? Could it be a collective thing like 'entering the stars'- a cosmic collage? Regardless, I can't believe a cycle would end.

I wanted to write something beautiful about where I was at that moment. The fact that I was in my apartment decided me that I would invent a place that I was. Then I could write about the sun or the moon or the stars, the trees, the grass, the animals, or any number of other beautiful things that we see in the world around us. It would be 'poetic' and 'lyrical' and tug at the heart's strings- it would satisfy my idea of 'beauty'. Then I thought, "What makes my opinion of beautiful the correct opinion? Why should I want to write what everyone wants to hear? What if there was one person who would be inspired by my 'less than beautiful' piece?" and I decided that I would write about where I was at that very moment.

My Now


Music playing too loud to hear the A.C.
The light above my head-
so steady and unflickering
casting hard, determined, unyielding shadows
That silly shrill whistle
the refrigerator sings-
making technological tunes
shockingly comforting
The iguana in my house
(Jade is her name)
shifts in her house
knocking on the glass
as if to say
"Is anyone home out there?"

Smoke drifts up from
a lit cigarette in the ashtray
It drifts in a symphony of dance
directed by the A.C.
and sometimes
my own passing-by

The street sounds outside my window
press and insist to be heard
(as if I could forget them)
like neglected children needing attention.

Sunlight plays it's innocent games
with the shadows
upon my window sills
tempting me to join in.
These walls stolidly gaze on
at the frivolous nature
with which time passes.

They no longer seem a prison
but a background
on which my life
is portrayed.


Take a moment to SEE the world around you and the beauty that is there for anyone to find. It may seem strange to begin with but it grows on you. Poetry doesn't have to be written and it doesn't have to fit your- or anyone else's- paradigm. This world did not come in a box with a lot of frills and wrapping paper and ribbon, but it is there for everyone to share. It's life's gift to us, free of charge.