A poem from “iPoems For the Dolphins to Click Home About” 

Because we are damaged we look at what wheels still turn:

How the beautiful began looking beyond the mirror on her wall,

Why the vegan ate the burger when the hunter couldn’t pull the trigger,

Which types of loneliness lead to depression, which depressions lead to art,

And what art forms save another’s humanity,

What wars are worth fighting and which death tolls are acceptable,

How we are all pro life until circumstances arise…

Why the god in the mosque, is not the god in the church, is not the

God in your heart, is the gray God of justified tragedy,

Why his god disagrees with her god, why one god, why two gods,

Why three gods in one god, why not her god in his god, why red

Gods and blue gods and green gods and living gods and dead gods

And risen gods and fallen gods and failing gods or no gods?

Who are these hordes of anonymous women on the Internet,

What is upsetting all the bloggers,

Why the darkness of our soul ceases the day we have no soul,

How the original virtue was that life went on after the first sin,

Why Cain wandered the Earth looking for something,

When Abel was just beginning to feel loved…

Why love? Why Love? Why Love?

Why lovers have hated, have hurt and harmed, have wondered, weltered and wandered, 

Have turned moment to memory to music, seeing the searcher as the sought, 

spotting Ccommon ground in a shared gaze, navigating the map-less mutuality of reflexive lines of 

Sight, considering in quiet contemplation these intangibles, only to arrive at the 

Realization that, even if it was not what we were searching for, 

we will be thankful that The journey is not over and there is still enough daylight creeping in the naked corners of 

The sky to light our way towards darkening horizons where we can only assume we’ll find:

Real verse, scribbled anonymously on bathroom stall walls,

Real depth, the last choke of a MAYDAY! MAYDAY!

The wildest flowers, those given in the hope of reconciliations, plotted and un-potted abruptly to throw towards a departing lover the waking dream of vanishing revelations,

The truest prayers, those leaking from the hopeful mouths of unbelievers, ecumenical atheists casting buoyant nets past the edge of their earlier assumptions,

The truest poet, not searching for poetry, throwing his only inked sheet into

A bottle, which swallowed by the sea, will float towards Guam…

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