The plaster in Rick’s place was always flaking near the doorway,
eaten away by damp heat and cheap tobacco smoke
that hung like dirty lace off the cedar joists.
Back in the corner sat a stunted, yellowed box—
a five-octave upright slapped with salmon and faded gold,
its pedals worn down to raw, scuffed brass.
It wasn’t built for concert halls. Just a pine-cased crate
that smelled of spilled Cointreau and stale olive brine.
Heavy teak doors kept the street noise out,
but couldn’t block the shuffle of black-market transit papers
passing under the low oil lamps.
Then Sam laid his knuckles on the keys,
cracked ivory, half-sticking from the salt air,
and the room went dead quiet.
She stood in the entry, silk coat catching the light,
asking for that song from Paris
before the tanks rolled in.
Rick didn't yell. He just stopped dead in his tracks,
watching the smoke curl off his cigarette
where it rested on the edge of the wood.
“Play it,” he muttered, his voice flat as gravel,
and the little wooden box gave up the only thing it had left.
Part of being young
Is a belief in the power of hope
Part of growing up
Is the realization that hope
Has nothing to do with actual life.
Like Yoda said, you either do or don’t do
There is no try, as there is no hope.
This is just part of growing up, but
Some of us have been dumbed down
So our growth has been slowed
And so our idealism lasts well into adulthood.
It takes a combination
Of high hope and low IQ
To support communism, you know,
The political and economic philosophy
The depends on other people’s money.
Its supporters are usually divided into two groups;
The poor without much to lose and lots to gain
(Or so they hope)
And the elite who know wealth concentrates at the top
No matter what economic system is followed.
Low IQ is essential,
And sadly also accompanies being poor,
Because the actual result of communism
Is just more poverty and less freedom.
All around the lessons of history are clear
And yet all around its students put on blinders
Hoping, against all odds, with their stunted IQ
That this time they will get it right.
(8/20/26)
I'm twisted, starved, and revoltingly stunted,
blacksheeped, scape-goated, and litter-runted.
That's the brimstone pit and nightmare waste
from which emerged my delectable taste.
I have no interest in straightened teeth.
Don't show me a stone. I want what's underneath,
flat and squirming with plenty of legs,
miniscule monsters, hatched from eggs.
Your giggling voice that says, "You're weird"
is attached to brains once commandeered
by representatives of a safe community
unsettled by my unique pathology,
who told you wrongly, you'd never be found
writhing deliriously on forsaken ground,
where you and me would intertwine,
not far from the highway sign -
isn't it divine?
I wear a smile but it’s out of spite,
my fixed sign’s reading ‘Battery Low’.
Growth’s stunted by artificial light.
Across our visage muscles are tight,
is it possible someone could know?
I wear a smile but it’s out of spite
Over time you form a stalactite,
a landmark directing where to go.
Growth’s stunted by artificial light.
Walking widdershins is never right.
Staining each fingertip with a glow,
I wear a smile but it’s out of spite.
Imposing shadow comes with a bite,
so deceptive letting nothing show.
Growth’s stunted by artificial light.
Natural progress will bring delight,
even when delayed by vertigo.
I wear a smile but it’s out of spite,
growth’s stunted by artificial light.
covered in dried up blood stains
from stabbin a pin into my scarred up veins
been way past insane
kuz this dimension been lame
done lost tha game
a while ago
lost that dope as$ flow
that I used to emit
from my fly as* soul
couldn't be ignored
anywhere I'd go
super insecure
but try not to let it show
pains throughout my body
from all the mental baggage I got in tow
stunted in this slum
when I know I was supposed to grow
reality hit hard
it was a super low blow
don't think i could be made
to feel any more or low
karma tried to tell me
I'll reap what I sow
now I'm puttin bandaids on all my cuts
..like I didn't know-
that all of the b.s. I bestowed
would Come back 3 fold
Still Growing
seventy-three and one-half years young
can’t forget the half-don’t want to appear
younger than I actually am
seems like yesterday I was living in
a foster home and working on the farm
and that was fifty-six years ago
my biggest regret was all the
potential friendships I destroyed
because I was an angry person. I
came from a dysfunctional home
where every form of abuse was acceptable
I had PTSD of a sort so the shrink said
which stunted my social skills
my biggest triumph was accepting
Jesus has my savior. I have slowly learned
to forgive others and just as importantly myself
it has been a life long process and my transformation
is not totally finished but I am better than I was.
Now I have very few friends from the past but am
making some new ones while treating people with
respect.
Being content with the way things are is a
wonderful feeling.
He’s seen all the hopefuls reach for the sky
walks down aisles and anniversaries, how they pass by, as he fills every crowd with a presence so empty, minces his words and questions each syllable.
He’ll attempt a joke like his life’s on the line
(he gets it wrong, most every time)
The air is so thick, unmoved by the silence that falls when speaks, like he’s crafting a science but with everything that he’s seen, and every person he’s been, how has he not perfected the act?
That mask never sticks, it slips and they see it, and that’s when they start to step back. A life on the sidelines, that’s the life that he owns. A life not so giving, a life of stunted growth. He’s tried to escape it, more than once or twice, but he ends up just watching the world pass by.
As the children grow up and leave birthright towns, or when teenage lovers adorn wedding gowns, his place will not change- to all that is clear. He’s a seat filler through time for all the years that he’s here.
A spectator does not take centre stage.
A spectator, he’ll be, in every age.
Come all ye old fellers
Gather ye around
We'll talk of our dads
And have another round.
What's to say ? We all had our shares
Of getting out of his shadows
Some escaped soon, others were late
And some are still stunted right out of the gate.
Pointing at him, is like pointing at us
We are more like them than we admit
As we look in the mirror and ask ourselves
Would we have done any different?
So let us all toast
To our imperfect dads
And remember the apple
And where it lands.
I'm a gnarly pine tree. Twisted! Stunted!
A melody-filled flute once, I'm mute now!
With nightmares of winter, I am haunted.
Twigs with dry leaves I see in every bough.
My floral gardens are grazed by cattle.
Cobras crawl into my wrecked house debris.
Why do I seem to lose my inner battle?
Why, often, from myself do I try to flee?
I still see tall mountains in the distance.
The Milky Way shines in all its brightness.
Souls undergo a renewed existence.
Nature seems to tend toward boundlessness.
My movements are moments of reflection
As my pilgrimage is towards perfection...
Old debris still stands alone on the shore,
shivering on the sand motionless,
the roar of the waves lifts it,
its mouth open without a message.
The night wind touches it with its hand,
bringing out stains on it,
while calling out the signal of death,
in the dunes everything comes to an end.
The feathers of shot seagulls are still neatly stored,
bottles still roll silently over their bodies,
fish are found beginning to swell,
waiting their turn to disappear.
Hour after hour,
day after day,
the muddy ground slides away,
the stunted trees slumber under the seduction of sinful hands.
The heart of the intelligent being still acts like a factory chimney,
whose right it is to gaze upon all creation,
even he himself does not know,
the hustle and bustle of his footsteps is but an emptiness.
Atambua-NTT, Indonesia, December 2, 2025
When you enable criminals
They will only criminal more.
Everyone’s a victim
Within their own mind if stunted
At an infant level of development,
And in a world that craves equality
But has unequal crime,
Infant mentalities are encouraged
Well past childhood.
As I told my misbehaving grandson recently
“If you don’t learn to control your temper
Society will control it for you
In a prison.”
That is of course
If you aren’t part of the enabled demographic
Which just learns to criminal more.
(10/3/25)
Florence has warm blood
and cowrie teeth that seldom clatter,
even in the chilled, fluttering dance of July rain.
She’s an element of Shiloh
in weeping quest of a promising Samuel,
and for this,
walks through long and clammy paths in July rain.
July, a month of sacred yams,
with breast tubers and milk tendrils,
befriends Florence,
an eloquent lamenter,
the quintessence of languor,
this day of streaming showers.
I have often had her tears
on my palms —
tears that sob gently, lest the temple yonder
hears her and pronounces them FAITHLESS.
Florence, battered in the rain,
frazzled by extreme caution,
with ambiance of July
and naivete of the grey ewe,
has prayed for her breasts, for her milk
and for the growth of her stunted soul.
I, too, have prayed —
for the rebirth of the seventh moon,
for Florence and her bedraggled sorrows,
and for strength on behalf of our weakened village.
The shackles that hold me
Visible to my eye alone.
The collar around my neck
Only cause I allow it.
The chains around my feet
Have bound me to this prison,
A prison I call home
But feels a dungeon.
The boulder on my chest
Shouldn't keep me so stunted,
But what a great locksmith
I've turned out to be
An oppressor I have made me
To hold myself in place
And even when I try to
I cannot let me go.
A slave I have turned me
To serve until I'm dead.
But maybe someday
Unshackled I'll become.
I’ve never been kissed on the dance floor.
With him, I feel light-hearted,
but apart, I’m utterly devastated.
I’m a dreamer, he’s laid-back,
and without a genuine connection, our love feels
like scenes from a disconnected game—
where hate destroys, yet love seeks to heal.
But with each passing day, my love for him dwindles.
We are apart because this kind of love cannot thrive.
We never dance; we never kiss on the dance floor.
Our rhythms never sync; he lacks that spark,
and so, a kiss on the dance floor has eluded me.
Feelings shift when loneliness takes their place.
Love wavers,
when a marriage crumbles,
as I wish and hope our love was strong enough
to bridge the gap.
Unlike wildflowers plucked without care,
my love was stunted,
never given the chance to blossom.
Still, I hold a profound respect for him.
A part of me must make a choice,
and so I choose happiness; I choose solitude
over the confusion of pity masquerading as love.
Your words have power
They’re not just sounds they’re spells
You can cast them with malice
Or cast them wishing well
The consequences of hate
evident in one’s words
Is to mentally mutilate
To belittle to disturb
The ill will starts in the mind
Or perhaps a heart dark and blind
It affects perception, well being or health
When you are hateful to someone else
The tongue has no muscles
but can break hearts
It’s like a shuffle
between a fire starters spark
Black ideas or words of
Cruelty begin within
The aftermath can disturb
Cause fighting and other sins
Sometimes hate leads the way
To murder and mayhem days
A hostile environment where growth is stunted
Hate speech from some souls like water running
The consequences of hate
is fear and lawlessness
A sense of deep despair
in the hated from hatefulness
The cruelty of hate is toxic
Words and views are clues
Don’t act upon it let’s stop it
No one should be cruel
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