Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion

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Autism Angel


I was trying to represent an angel. I ended up tearing up napkins to create her. It represents all the people I have meet that are on the autism spectrum.



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As Above So Below


I know what I am not but not what I am. I know when to stop but not when to stop starting. I can inch my way into the middle and get stuck in the molasses of neither here nor there. I don’t know how to swim upstream without pounding pain, and instead, in alternate route, float downstream away from the waters where all else abounds.

Somewhere I have forgotten myself, and I search to find her, thinking I have arrived, only to once more find I am at the backdoor looking into what was and thinking I had known then.

I cannot remember who or where I have been, anymore than I can visualize where I am going. I am lost, in a time maze of confusion, falling upon a self I cannot fathom or detect.

She is there, in the shadowed-tunnel, collapsing and reborn into another, faster than humanly feasible. She is multitudes unopened and reopened—an anomaly in form. To be and not to be. To care and not to care. To unravel into the very depths of reason and peer down into the pond of ‘me.’ Only to question what it is that stares back with such disregard and wonderment.

I am but enough and then I am unequivocally lacking, never measuring up to the enforced standards absorbed from the path I walk. I clamor for explanation and find a thousand books untouched, though in some fashion taken into the realm of reason. I can feel the words: the spoken, the whispered, the silenced, the ones that never came and ones that never speared the element that is I.

They make me. They form me. They penetrate me into something I know not. Clay to my mind. Dirt to my heart. Scattered residue of earthly wants and needs. Goods that I am neither capable of grasping or acquiring.

I am this existence that the observer watches. Reformed with the passerby. Morphed into their reality and then left, unscattered and splattered, broken and unbroken, in a pool of endless duality.

I am what I am—yet only for a fleeting moment; a chance to take glance towards the outline of my palm, the beat of my heart, the opening of a billion universes. Everywhere I am, and at once I am alone. Isolated. A loneliness no less difficult to explain than the essence of what I have become. ~ Sam, 7/24/15


Of She…
She mounts, as the tuft ribbon, torn
Riding the circumference of questioning
Mind turned, trembled-wavers
Across endless cause
I cannot, I can, I will, I shan’t
And over the mountain terrains
She treks
Feet, aching soles
Upon beaten battleground
Heart opening to the chasm of reason
She is, and she is not
Twisted and reborn into
This something new and un-new
Opened and closed
Reexamined and brought into the light
Distraught and brilliantly aware
Carrying the global basket, woes
Torrid tears racing down bones
Outlining, this shadowed-speaker
Born into prism
Walls, resurfaced and reshaped
Made into what almost is
Until fleeting moments weep away
Left idling, still,
In creviced thoughts
Of what has come
Fragmented semblance
Slivered whispers
Claimed identity
The torrential gathering
Of she
~ Sam, 7/25/15




The Tremble

sam in glasses

He enters and all trembles. The bees. The birds. The very sky.

The whisperers of words shushed.

All silenced.

Say, his fingers.

How they weave and break, as the wave at the peak of servitude, pounding on the sandy shore proclaiming his arrival.

All is still.

Say, his voice.

Gentle comes the tellings of before.

And he weeps in his confession.

In his confusion.

Hush now, she comes, his mistress cloaked in blue, bathing him in gentle promises.

Pressing her cheek to his, her sign of blessing.

Her skin the touch of delight. Her taste still lingering beyond his breath.

Inhale as he does, her beauty. Taking her with his eyes and the quiet plenitude offered through the beating of his heart.

His hand to hers, he releases his guard, and the air escapes him, embracing the delicate freedom.

Her wanting sets upon his chest, the broadness thick and inviting. To hold him again, her only bliss.

To be taken into his stronghold, the only desire.

Oh, how she misses him in their shared withholding.

Her ache easing back to the familiar home. His passion seizing—lightening disassembled and reborn down the span of his center line.

Tell me, she asks, without words. Take me, her every layer screams.

And still he stands, the weeping man, forging through the land, this warrior come home.

In thought. In long ago deed.

Reliving where he’d traveled, and mourning his departure.

Lastly she moves, swaying her silhouette beyond reach. Her last desperate plea trapped in the quake of her throat.

Love me, she bleeds.

Before embracing herself in tremble.


longing 2





In the darkest hours

The world moves

As master puppeteer

And puppet


Disappointed in the performance

The drill and the hole

The very duplicate of the invented peg

Shriveled slugs


Inhabited by falsehoods

Illusion that claims fact

Trapped in the twined ball

Eyes closed

A fiber in twisted imaginings

A race to nowhere

Like the wheel set free

Down the endless hill

A contest


Within a magician’s spell

Cast out

When each is born blue

A prized ribbon

Left to unravel and bleed

In the reign games

A veil aching for recognition



From this place

Phantom ink scribbles


With vulture-tinted egos

Thousands born apart

Behind the layers

Where tears


Through the labor

Of birth







Luff to the wind

Your sails

My cloth

Curved as wings

We gather




Riding the feverish waters

I am

The calm

Turned sultry thick

Canvased skin

Dimpled white

Folds of flowing ghosts


With strong voice familiar

Captured in enduring flight

Starboard forgotten

Sunset entered

Through the ache of voyage

Capsizing the maiden

Nape upon nape

In the storm of you