Tag Archives: family

The Translation of Deceit and The Temptation of Desire

Lost in Translation…


Just words,


Just words…


It is commonly understood,


Is universal,

Felt by all,

Yet is it?

Now I am not so sure,


The very embodiment of that passionate urge,

The swelling surge,

That is as uncontrollable as the tides or gravity

And impossible to purge;

For here I am,

On wounded knee,


Having given all of me,

And willing to give so much more,

Tempted by another’s fruit,

As the story goes,

I was,

Knowing what I was doing was wrong,

Persisting still,

Not knowing that it was to get worse,

As all things forbidden usually do;


Reassured by your tender words,

The trance like innocence conveyed,

That betrayed the festering truth deep within,


Those you thought I wanted to hear,

Penetrating so,

Knowing I wanted to hear truth,

Not momentary,

But everlasting,

Convinced that what you held for me was real,

Compounded by those words you said to me,

Mocking temptress,

Vicious villain leaving me caught unaware,

In that moment,

Perhaps you expected me to say something different,

Perhaps hoping I would,

Is that the case?

I guess I’ll never know,

And in light of what has come to light,

I now don’t care.

In love,

You let me float on cloud high,

Nine and silver lined,

Seemingly higher than I have ever been before,

Realizing now the manic apparitions,

When with those words you changed me,

In an instant,

Looking into the future,

And whole lives flashing before my eyes,

My imagination wild with expectancy,




As names resonated through my head,

Through my fingers,

Touching my pursed lips,

Kissing life,

Trying to find the one meaning,

That could somehow compliment what I believed we had,

But did we ever?


Your deception now clear,

Intention however lost,

Despite my over thinking.

Now what I am left to consider,

As my heart cries out,

Like a lone lemming,

In search of family,

The family I believed I was starting,

That you let me believe for too long,

Was going to be real,


In love,

A child conceived of love,

But do you know what love is?

As poison dripped from your lips,

Seeping into my veins,

And killing me from within,

For that which I could not be without,

The manipulation of my desires, dreams and aspirations,

The game you play,

Not just on me,

But all.

Do you know what love is?

Truly inside your heart and soul?
Nay, simply the wicked game,

Played by your insecurities,

Those measured imperfections,

Shadows of shadows,

Wherein you hide,

Mata Hari to your own needs,



Never satiated,,

By your own despotic evil,

Webs of deception,

As in my hurt,

My eyes wide open,

Availed once more,

Of the piercing screams of my dark companion,



That woeful Black Dog.

Left to understand what you never will,

For love would not do what you have done,

Could not,

Let me feel the way I felt,

Let me believe what I did,

Including as cannon fodder,

Our families both,

A lifetime,


A loving girlfriend, wife and mother,

The most wonderful present you offered,

And as a man, I was ready,

To stand up,

Doing whatever necessary,

To support our burgeoning family,

Nothing I would not do,


And I would have been for you.

But no more,

Given the chance,

No more,

Given the chance,

No more shall I beg a fool,

For surely you are,

I was;

All that you wanted and more,

Instead blinded by your own iniquity,

A fanciful insanity,


Not unlike my own,

Though I never had a malicious thought, nor action,


But for you, I was pawn,

And you were Queen and King,

Making a jester of my thoughts and desires,

Deeper into the burrow of your sham.

All that I am,


For all of you,

For each other,

For our families,

For our child,

The full spirit of love exposed,


And then repressed,

As now tempered reason,

And lies exposed,

Reveal no burgeoning translation would ever be,


Wandering lost,

In cultural differences,

Secret life,


Yours now reveal,

Very real,

Though now free,

Stinging my broken heart,

Crushing my wounded spirit,



That will never be answered,

Or will they?

Seemingly the truth has set me free…

Uncertainty brash and deeply hurting,

A fragment of the man I was,

To become the man I will be,

Not for you,

But for a love requited,


Understood beyond the words so meaningless to you,

Hmong Key,

The ‘Key’ indeed, you were,


Ones never lost,

In translations!



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Can You…

Can you…

Can you forgive me…


I hope you can

And trust you will;


For I pang for a life of,

Once upon a times,

And happily ever after,

With you…


All ye that have been reckless,

Without regard or understanding,

The condition within,


For this wounded man,

Figurative and literal,

Brutally torn and tattered,

Hidden realities and invisible scars,

I can let no one see,

For when I do the result is inevitable,

An inverse rabbit in the hat,





I fault you not,

For choosing the easier road,

For truly there is no easy road in life,

I fault you not,

How could I,

Considering that I know myself,

My three selves,

I and I and I,

And at times even I am uncertain,

As to whether or not,

I am comfortable in my own skin,

I assure you I am,


And have not been for quite some time;


I have to be, though,

And I attempt daily,

To find the strength,

I attempt daily,

To give you reassurances,

A necessary aplomb,

That I can and will beat this thing,

This unbeatable,




This jewel that remains unpolished,

Uncut stones,

Like tracts of time,

Rivers on Mars,

*(desiring instead Eros)

Those reveal our deepest wounds,

Mine hiding behind compartments of beaming soul shine,

Fighting to overcome my black dog,

Constant cruel companion,

I fight;


I can’t apologize for my wounds,

I just can’t,

Hard to believe,

Well you should,

Perhaps if you read my palm,

Perhaps if you read me,

Reached inside and held tenderly,

This abject sorrow,


Heaving me through time,

From place to place,

Longing for a home,

A love,

A wife,

A home,

A family,

A life;

Longing for you…


You’d get it,

You’d understand,

Why I turn the colour of an aubergine,

At the very thought,

Of a love requited,

A love with you,

A thought I’ve held dear,

Since my life fell apart,

In an instant,


Of this chivalrous knighted,


And how am I fool,

Looking to put my feet on firm ground,

The terra firma,

Of your heart,

Like in fairy tales,

That delivers me from evil,

And reminds me,

Of all that is before us,

What do we do now?

What do we do now?

All ye that have been reckless,

With this wounded man,

How do I forgive you,

With grace, compassion, empathy, understanding and love,

Can you do the same?


Will you?





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Lost Generation (2)

I no longer wish to cradle you in my arms,
For the body electric is gone,
Reminisces of once held soul mate,
That now seeks life on her own,
Knowing that you had to do what you did,
Without knowing why,
Is precisely why I am moving on,
Why I no longer wish the body electric,
With you,
Abandoned at the moment I most needed you,
When you most needed me,
With reckless disregard,
Self loathing and fear,
I now stand as champion of my own soul,
My own advance,
Creating a new body electric,
Fueled by Tesla, Hemingway and more,
Those voices,
They continue to speak to me,
Smack me, jar and jam me,
In ways you never did,
In ways you never could,
They grow louder each day as I grow ever closer,
To the realization of a new love,
A self love,
So that I may again learn to love another,
The one I now believe I see,
My first love and hopefully my last love,
A paradigm shifted,
By all misunderstood,
These words that I caress just as deftly as I had you,
These words that I twist and turn into beautiful elements,
Of a life worth living,
For in now accepting what and who I am,
And what I did and why I had to support you,
I am free to enhance the calling,
I will answer the clarion call of the giants in my mind,
In the pursuit of happiness and love,
In pursuit of Muse,
She, herself,  calls out for me to listen to the Lost Generation,
Though she misunderstands them and perhaps even me,
Transplant myself back to the age I should have been born,
And that I now live daily in my mind,
Paris, 1923
Over in the corner,
Picasso is holding court with a bevy of ladies,
As always,
A few men try to enter the fray and are shunned away,
As always,
By twirling fingers of fantastic delight,
As always…

Gertrude approaches me first,
Entreating me to sit with her for a glass of red wine;
“As you well know Sir, one of the pleasant things those of us who write or paint do is to have the daily miracle. It does come.”
The words fall from her mouth,
As an entrenched philosophy,
An esoteric Ether that empowers me,
But appear like Victoria or Angel falls,
Monumental in that Stein is always right,
More often than not.
She continues;
“An audience is always warming but it must never be necessary to your work.”
I ask;
“Do you feel I need an audience?”
“Not at all,” she assures me,
“Just remember, that your words are you, you are your words,
and nobody, anywhere, can change that.”
I deeply inhale my Cuban cigar and find myself looking for the familiar,
Calling out for a scotch,
With that, I hear F. Scott off in a corner;
“Have you proven yet that Gatsby is not the greatest character?”
As I approach I can hear him laughing;
“Surely you are a greater character than Jay?”
“Frankly,” I reply,
“I am not from any Egg, east nor west, but I am certain that Jay is still the greatest…”

F. Scott scoffs at me as a mother a child,
Scolding me for something I have done something in err,
As far as I remember is human, no?

“What is wrong with you boy, it’s up to you, write.”
Pensively I stare into the void between F. Scott and my face,
“You don’t believe it is that easy?”
“Well we’ll never know until you write it will we?”
I nod my head partially frightened but truly elated,
“The world only exists in your eyes.
You can make it as big or as small as you want.”
He says kindly,
“Create the world you want to create and make it BIG…”
F. Scott clearly enjoying his treatise goes on;
“An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation,
the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.”
I fire back without hesitation;
“But I am not in my youth anymore…”
He angrily interrupts;
“Son, you are a writer, you are in your youth evermore.”

Apparently Zelda had had quite enough and as many times before,
As always before,
Takes me by the hand and leads me to an empty space,
Invisible pheromones clashing,
As Muse reenters my mind,
No music is playing except for the soft rush of wind,
Against the storied cobblestones of Paris’ Left Bank;
“He is right you,” she says,
“About?” I inquire.
“His advice to you, is right on.
You are youthful, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Zelda” I say, “Are you hitting on me?”
She replies; “No, well maybe,
yet, have you looked in the mirror?
I have seen twenty year olds that don’t have the baby face you do
and what’s more Jay may, or may not be, the greatest character,
but you have it in you to write that character and the time is now.
What are you waiting for?”

Together we swayed back and forth,
Not as lovers dancing more like a father with his daughter bride,
And Zelda started to hum,
Knowing something was coming I steadied my nerves,
For when she hums,
Zelda hums,
As the Ether beckons,
“Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise,
erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions,
fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions
and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes. ”
She twirls me gently;
“No sour grapes Sender, live, live, live.”
As I reach the pinnacle of the twirl she releases me…

So I drift over to T.S. who sits pensively;
“You come to us, daily,
or rather it is we who come to you,
we know you are searching,
you know you are searching but I wonder…
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out
how far one can go.
How far are you willing to go my boy?”

The voices in my head determined today to make me think,
As always,
Forcing me into intellectual corners that I’d rather not be in,
“As far as is necessary,” I assure him, “further if possible.”
“You look stunned young man…
the best advice I can ever give you consists in this…
If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.
Be poignant. Be selective. Be you and write.”

The sun had long since set,
Paris revealing that majestic splendor of its thousands year old history,
With deafening shadows and perfumed stains of life,
This was the Paris we all loved,
The Paris we lived for,
The Paris that always exists in our minds,
As we all stood there in a faith shaking silence,
Our talent, ability and joie de vive,
We knew it could not last,
But we would fight,
To the death,
Refusing to grow up,
While trying not to get old,
Though our words may live forever,
We know,
We shall not.


With a telling glance and a tip of my cap I walk away,
Over to my literary father,
Hemingway with a slap on my back and a firm grip of my hand,
Looked on with child like wonder,
At the sight of Paris on this most perfect Summer dusk,
“Sender, you realize we won’t always be here?”
I laughed,
As I wondered how a figment of my overworked mind could express,
That he knew better than I,
As always,
How long they would or would not be there;
As always,
“I assure you Ernest, you will always be with me…”
“Not as now…and that is why you must know…
We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
I was a failure and so too will you be,
if you can’t finally unleash the  fuming literary beast inside you.”

He continued;
“Every man’s life ends the same way.
It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another. How are you going to live your life?
How are you going to distinguish yourself?”
He repeated this line over and over,
As always
For what seemed like hours,
And Paris slowly transformed into Laos,
And I am brought back to this place and time,
So that I can finally distinguish,

The voices,
These voices,
Those sing the praises of a life worth living,
Are my daily reminder,
My daily escape,
And my daily reminder,
That we are all put on this earth to do something,
Not just anything,
Whether to paint, write, sing, dance, whatever it may be,
And should we refuse to answer that calling,
Our lives,
Will be less than they should be,
Love, Family and the words,
The voices of the Lost Generation,
Are my clarion calls to a brilliant masterpiece,
And I don’t know what I would do without them,
That I am sure I would go mad.


Lost Generation (1)


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I Choose YOU


Above all else,

Hmong Key,

Let it ring from the mountains,

To every valley and every shore,

Above all else,

I chose love,

I choose you,

I choose to pledge my life,

To you,

To us,

Not because it is easy,

But the exact opposite,


Daily growing and improving,

Sloughing off that which prevents our happiness,

Guided ever more by you,


Above all else,

I choose you,

For though these words profess,

My actions speak true,

There is nothing,

No boundary,

Nothing I won’t do,

To spend this life with you.

Above all else,

Hmong Key,

Let it be known,

That you have shown me,

Some error of my ways,


Fallen not on deaf ears,

But on a ready, willing and able soul,

There is nothing I won’t do,

For it is you,

Above all else,

I choose love,

I choose you,

Nothing else will do,

Nothing else will do,

For you are the light,

Leading me to a brighter future,

Away from a darkened past,

Away from shadows,

Into the light,

Your light,

I choose love,

I choose you.

Above all else,

Hmong Key,

I choose to spend my life with you,

With this love that so clearly is real,

More than I imagined,

More than I could see,

Though now,

Blinders off,

I realize that I must surrender,

I must give in,

Submit all of me to all of you,

For above all else,

Hmong Key,

There is you and only you,

I chose love,

To be the change I want to see in the world,

To forever embrace your sweet caress,

Rather than unnecessary distractions,

And I am no longer distracted,

By fool hardy notions of what can and can not be,

Only what is,

What I am,

What you are,

What we are

And what this love will become,

Above all else,

I choose love,

I choose love,

I choose you,

As you chose me,

I love you.

Above all else,


Hmong Key,

There is nothing more important to me than you,

Your happiness,

Your earthly and spiritual desires,

And though these words alight my actions,

It is my actions that will display,

The frankness of this submission,

To you,

To us,

For what else is life,

But the pursuit of more,

And you are all the more I need,


I choose you,

I choose you,

The alpha and the omega of my everything,

For you are my everything,

Aren’t you,

This love,

The most important,

Relentless in my pursuit,

You will see,

That there is nothing above you,


I submit to you,

On this table,

In these words,

In my deeds,

With my heart, spirit, body and soul.,

All that I have to give,

I give,

To you,

For you,

That you may know,

Deep within your wounded heart,

And my own,

That this passion restless,

Will not subside,

For there is nothing else above you,

Nor will there ever be again,

As time will let you see,

That there is only you,

Only you,

Hmong Key…

I love you!


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Any Day Now

The nightmares came,
And now they come again,
Two of them,
In rapid succession,
Sometimes for days,
Sometimes for weeks,
This year for months,
As the brisk November air,
Is greeted by the cool summer breeze,
Beyond belief reminding me of that sullen day in Detroit,
As sub tropical realities break through,
And painful decisions do recoil.
Torture quelling any thought other than you, as I tortured you,
As both cruel and unusual punishment,
For what did you do?
What did you do?


Your existence enough to cause your demise,
That knowledge stays with me,
And again reminds me of what  I have done,
Always has and always will,
Reminded of what power and money can do,
And people that truly don’t see,
Forest for the trees,
The misery of mental projections,
Internalized hellish trial,
Mine own,
Of my crime against humanity,
Against my own child,
C H I L D R E N,

So, so, so sorry am I,
Silent stalker of repressed emotions,
Those that I must endure,
For to do less would mean my own quietus,
The instant terror does not creep,
But leaps,
Inside my psyche and haunts my sleep,
Shaking my resolve as I awake,
The skeletons in my closet are not only proverbial,
Abstractly literal,
The symbolism of this agony,
So overpowering I am assaulted,
As a domestic abuse that I conceded,
Robbing you of life, lives,
As I did,
I did,
You live on, frightfully, inside this mind,
Torn already into three parts,
I and I and I,
With a bids eye view of what an abortion looks like,
With a front row seat,
Apparent encores without bravos,
Gashes in this weary soul, reliving the pain of a broken heart,
My greatest aspirations, taken,
Reliving time and again how it feels,
To watch the light of an unborn child,
By my hand,
By my hand?

In surreal images, lurid, prurient,
Of your mother, running toward me,
Tears welling up in her eyes,
As her shrill and piercing screams,
Command that I look at you,
As she carry you,
Both of you covered in blood,
Running down the hall of that clinic,
Its institutional walls and discrete exterior,
So perfectly recorded in every detail,
That I could walk from Toronto with my eyes closed,
Having returned to the scene of the crime since our time,
A trip that I will never forget,
And have taken again,
Closing them now,
No good, for I am here,
The Mekong calling me,
I do look, my humanity demands it,
For even as I may try not to,
I lost more than my innocence that day,
And this one that follows,
And again,
I lost the gift of life, the power of it,
Taken away by over zealous parents,
Your mothers,
Family, friends and others,
Who despite our designs,
Instead decided that they knew better,
As time passes and I reflect,
Making the same mistakes,
On the events leading up to your demise,
I beat myself up,
Raising my head to the heavens;


I embrace the raw emotions and feelings,
Knowing that I must experience this pain,
To account for the ill done against you,
And YOU,
That ill,
With a resonance that becomes master of my thoughts,
Divided, confused, scared, shocked, upset,
Berating, deflating, never abating,
For nothing would change,
Could change,
What we were forced to do,
What we chose to do,
What I said was all right,
Knowing that my solace will only arrive,
When I know your mother has again been with child,
And I too get to hold dear a child of my own,
I’m sorry,
An apology that seems vacuous now,
But it is true,
I am,



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