"Because you can be sure, my dear Crito, that misuse of words is not only troublesome in itself, but actually has a bad effect on the soul." Phaedo

Posts tagged “conversion

The Stories Within The

Please view my videos on YouTube.com that preview the books I have authored beginning with “The Stories Within The,” which introduce the characters in the trilogy “The”, “Expected”, “One”.   youtu.be/-qAetczpPg.




Martes de Carnaval


What mystery can you hide when the eyes give away the lie….

…but then, maybe it was real.



The Hideaway


The mask that owns us, indulges and conceals.

Snow over Segovia

Snow over Segovia 

I would like to blame loudness,

For the shattering sky.

Where every disease is a trophy,

All terrorism, limited to perfunctory flesh.

Beheaded, in honor of inhuman regard,

True shrift made loud,

Picks away at the same unholy scab,

Unable to exceed the office,

Of even one icy lachrymose.

Anticipation, the same as before;

Injurious smelt membranes,

Of, nothing really new.

Until the scandal vents a good,

Conjuring a most formidable target.

That when the blue Angelis can spit only flowers,

Would he stop for stopping sake?

No, such convinces lap against

The rusty shores of risky delights.

Apart and a part of unapologetic nature.

But, the light from light,

Convenes unforgivable labors, and

Turn errors symbiotic with their heated persuasions.

The iron press to every winkle,

Awakens the good poison to crooked confidences,

Always pointing to provocative north;

The zenith to the estranged heart.

And where we go, a journey of time.

Every choice deception beautified,

Every lust a discreet infiltrator to a powerful ally,

reversing blame to the snow in my own eye.


The Never Too Late

Porto Bella, Church of the Black Christ

The Never Too Late.

The medium invents the low and high,

Interned unable to hide,

Within every vicinity of the naked eye.

Roget fuels the silk screen, of

The magical bypass machine,

Whispering nightmares into every dream.

Firey words to woo the slave,

create the frozen splinters,

of calmer, less romantic, days.

But, backspace, where is my place in it?

Is it the chase and tackle, the new standard of wit?

Or the will to imitate the disguises of a proper fit?

Prisoners by the same weight,

the bid is placed on a perpetual fate

but offer freedom to the Never Too Late.

Within the prattle, play and stage,

Committed to every page, the attempt to

Snare reason; the soul prophet of a day’s wage.

Feather the shattering paralysis we animate,

Mill the stone, speak, and watch water vibrate,

And detonate the variable of the Never Too Late.