Papal Pigeon

Directly from the mind of a peaceful warrior, a surfer, musician, photographer, poet and lover of all things True and Beautiful.

Category: Poetry




Hugs &


Love is


Light a cigarette.

Watch the trail of smoke rise:



as sensuous as a—


save time to reflect;

and then, to forget.

All alone on this love sofa

where I used to serenade you;

hold you,

and if I was lucky,

to lick your beautiful shoulder—

even if I smelled like gasoline and

was always thinking about something else . . .

Pure adulterated love.




With Care of a Psychotic


Show Time 

The way that you squeal,
during times that you are pressed

sends cosmic shivers and vibrations up my spine and down deep into my cerebral cortex.

The way that you feel— as I caress your slender neck and

grab hold of your statuesque shoulders

allows me to connect with something greater than myself,

if only for a transient, yet totally truthful moment.

I have broken you in an embarrassing fit of rage

And pieced you back together with the care of a psychotic until you were perfect.

I could tune you in, turn you up and you would turn me on

to the ethereal om that filled room when you sang.

I intended to write a poem

about my favorite guitar, but

I can’t help but think of how I miss your smile and those

Beautiful. Bold. Brown. Eyes.

And how, in their reflection,

I could see what truth is—

how I could see the shortcomings of my self.

I never intended to always be so cruel, but over and over again I guess I heard the same song playing in my head and each had a middle and a beginning, but I could never foresee the end…

Now I’m starting to think I’m simply incapable of maintaining a healthy relationship because, in my head, there are too many things that buzz and not enough things that blend.

Love Bug

Bug Love

Loving Bugs

The Sunshine Smile Blues

Pool Girl

Eleven dead iguanas lined the road

their insides spilled out onto the dirt

—that was how I knew they were dead.

The only noise came from four, friendly pigeon admirers,

whistling Dixie perched high above the road on telephone wires.

All ten of my toes mingled midst the broken glass, iguana guts and dirt that
mixed together at that spot on the road to form a grand and holy trinity—

it tickled my feet.

An apocalyptic vision crossed my mind but

I wrote it off as just another meaningless harbinger that

appear every so often along Borinquen’s manic depressive roads.

A white cat crossed my path no more than eight minutes later,

as I continued walking along the road and

I don’t put much stock in superstition but

I think I’ve got some good luck coming my way sometime soon.

Right then, sunshine smiles and a seven-dollar pack of cigarettes

filled my pant’s pockets and they hung low,

despite my belt and generally happy-go-lucky disposition.

I was dressed to the nines,

in my skinny jeans and favorite holey t-shirt,

running my five fingers through greasy hair when

she jostled me out my day dreaming—

slamming away on the six strings of her old guitar

underneath the big banyan tree on the beach.

singing her sorrows at the top of her tortured lungs to the ocean;

begging to be heard by no one—simply acknowledged and then left alone with her guitar and the ocean.

My legs felt stilted as I approached her tenderly.

She kept playing as I sat down and

I lit two cigarettes,

she took hers and smoked with pinky a out like a femme fatale and

I knew I could stop counting—

She was the one.

Brown hair cascading onto

the sexiest shoulders I’ve ever seen and

occasionally covering her lonely and piercing eyes.

We sang the blues to the bluest ocean—in love and trust, and

later on, while we watched the sun set, I French-kissed her shoulder, and

the sky was the color of spilled iguana guts.

Sunset Selfy

The Effervescent Sunset River Valley

Sink or...?

The Effervescent Sunset River Valley

We used to beat the streets of New York City,

begging to be heard by anyone that would listen but

we never hedged our bets.

Our screams, from the grafitied soapbox we sometimes shared, were in regard to no thing in particular—simply naïve whispers amidst the thunderous aplomb of the city.

Lightning struck three times that I can remember clearly:

Once; while in an effervescent sunset river valley.

Our tongues tied together underneath the big banyan tree
where we laughed and cried about everything and nothing,

shaded from the sun while it rained in spite of reality

and a rainbow has never been so bold and beautiful;

Again; while on the corner of and lost.

After wandering around the village,

heavily under the influence of mushrooms and marijuana,

where we sat for hours with our toes  dangling

over the edge of a cute bridge and in the storm, in the rain,

no one bothered us.

Finally, in that rudely precocious brownstone,

where I  stumbled off the couch and took a knee and you gave me your hand and I slipped a tiny diamond ring on your sexy finger and you said, “forever,”

and we got drunk off wine and called everyone we knew back home,

to tell them the news and

I felt lucky to have you and to call you my own.

The ring I gave you was mailed back home to me a few months later

in a plain envelope

with no note

 and now ,

it sits on my coffee table and

I see it all day long,

glaring back at me.

Three Guitars in Disrepair

Studio time

My first love, my tiny blonde Martin guitar, never left my side for the first six years I knew her.

It’s worn body reflects the pain we endured together and

now that it’s held together by duct tape and baling wire,

it sounds tired of my trying.

My scintillating strawberry Stratocaster squeals and hisses a disgusting tune whenever it’s plugged in and I’ve found myself—

on more than one occasion—

taking drastic measures trying to fix it;

though I’ve learned I lack the necessary patience and elegance to rewire the delicate circuitry.

The dark brunette Les Paul was absolutely gorgeous but

for some reason it always sounded like it had one foot out the door yet
I still loved it with a burning passion because

I could see what we could become, if she tried.

It was a love-hate relationship.

After a while I grew tired of carrying the burden of seeing unrealized potential and

I sold it for something much less remarkable—

and I think that suits me alright for now.


By Fist or by Fury

By Fist or By Fury

The scars on my knuckles lie

Like her eyes when they pretend they’re not looking my way.

I sip on weak coffee—knuckles looking tough

like I’ve fought for things I believed in

and whether or not I won or lost is no matter, because at least I got my shots in.

I see her looking at me,

then averting her gaze down to her papers or at her nails and

it makes me nervous so I fondle my cigarettes in my shirt’s pocket and

try to sit up straight and look presentable and

not to spill my coffee on my shirt.

I pretend like I don’t notice her.

I try to play it cool—

I don’t even know her and

We act like we don’t see each other’s wayward tongues, licking lips, begging for provocation

And to fuck and be fucked in all sorts of clichéd ways:
in New England farmhouse lofts in the dusty hay,

on sterile rooftops of Boston and Brooklyn, cityscapes in the background,

or on the white sand beaches of Borinquen, trade winds rustling the palms.

I don’t know if it’s her femme fatale bangs and bright red lipstick that reminds me of Paris and Sex or the oversized sunglasses that hide her eyes as she pretends not to stare.

Like my knuckles that lie,
I’ve never fought for a single thing that I believe in—

love and lust and light included—

and I probably won’t fight for her either.

“That Fake Step Feeling”

I’m always trying to find that “fake step feeling”
You know the one… when you’re walking up a set of familiar steps in absolute darkness and typically it’s late at night and you’re somewhat disoriented by the day or by whatever fuels you and you’re not quite paying attention to how many steps you’ve already taken, and your position relative to the ending of the staircase and the flattened out plane that starts at the beginning of a new level, and you take that haphazard and magical step, trusting that yet another step will be there to hold your weight, and it doesn’t.
So…for a split second you’re left hanging on the edge and your head and shoulders and hips have shifted and oriented to this new level and your mind races, unsure of what the hell is going on and wondering why the floor has literally just dropped out from beneath you and just when you conclude that the world is over and you’re in the middle of falling to a strange and surreal death and you’re wondering how it’s going to be explained on the news: “Local boy found dead after second floor of home disappeared beneath him,” your foot touches down onto something solid and reality rushes back in, and you’re happy to be alive.

“Woke up at 2am Blues”


Fascinated and frail; distractions burned our pupils, as light became dancing imagery and dancing imagery, brash reality: three buttons to the wind.

All fades, anesthetized by time and age, and just like the tired trumpet player I saw in Boston, blowing cool and complex phrases- finding that particular “high white note” and I wake forgetting exactly what it sounded like.

All flagrant vagrants; dreaming of being prolific, waking with nothing much to say, looking for the ocean to provide truths and finding only vagabonds in wave energy…never sticking around, but there long enough for us to flap our arms and dance weightless on the crest of each gently rolling waveform while our eyeballs burn white and dance along in time.

Untitled; But Not Without Reason

Dale is a big man.
He easily stands six foot two,
two hundred and twenty pounds with a hardened face and a full mustache and when he speaks, in-between puffs of his mini-macanudo cigars, each word has purpose and comes out slowly with a Mainer’s distinct drawl and intonation.
His blue eyes told a thousand stories.
His blue eyes looked like sadness felt.

Dale was a star football player in high school
He told me that every day.
He had all of the stats and the play by plays chiseled away into his memory.
See, Dale was a Stone Mason now and pushing fifty,
with all the scars and pains that accompany any hard lived life, and worse.
He had broken his back a long time ago but the pain still lingered and the pills didn’t help, and one of his thumbs was now one half-inch longer than the other. This is what happens when a four-pound hammer just misses its mark.

See, I was a senior in high school
I was supposed to be a star too.
I was a hockey player,
I tried to not let my ego get the best of me.
My id did.
I broke my back,
Hopes and dreams shattered.
I hadn’t applied to a single college.
I got better but I didn’t become better.
I needed to find a job.
I wanted to find myself.
I became a Stone Mason because it was all I knew;
I found solace in hoisting these heavy things into place.

Dale taught me to find Zen in the art of stone masonry.
See, our stone walls are still the best standing.
You can hardly fit a sheet of paper in-between the cracks, even now after many winter and summer cycles of freezing and expansion and melting and contracting.
Each rock was perfectly placed.
Each wall was our masterpiece.
This required precision and the learned ability to become one with your tools-
after all, this is granite we’re dealing with:
its strength was only outweighed by our resolution.
the outcome was equal to our desire.

There was not much talking between us during the winter months,
just the sound of metal striking rock.
It was very cold on the coast of Maine, and our lips were frozen shut.
In the summer the heat came and thawed out our bones.
I got to know him a little better in-between the hammer blows.
His wife of twenty years had left him one day;
Taken his children and his life savings that he kept in a brown paper bag in the bottom of a broken dryer in the basement.
We only talked about it that one time.
We sat on the beach, with sand in our eyes.
It was the first time I’d ever seen a grown man cry.
His tears soaked his mustache.
We smoked a joint to pass the time.
We spoke while the water rose: laughing at our feet.
We went back to work.
We became the hammer and the chisel.
Together, and bit-by-bit we changed the shape of that granite to fit wherever we needed it to.

So, it was no surprise to me when I went wandering down the road from my house in Puerto Rico and cut through the thick jungle vines to the footpath where palm trees and dead leaves lead the way to the spot where I want my ashes spread some day.
Dale stood at the end of the path and glowed.
A lit cigar dangled from his lips and his hands stretched out before him.
He held a hammer and a chisel
I had surfboard under my arm and wore a pair of swim trunks and that was all I thought I needed.
I put the surfboard down and he didn’t say anything as I took them, which was fine,
I can’t hear as well as I used to;
I have buried my eardrums a million times in the very spot we now stood.
I looked at the tools more closelythe metal was humming and glowingly bright,
residual sunlight refracted off their clean and sparkling surfaces and speckled my face.
The handle of the chisel was inscribed with the words, “Firm patience.”
The handle of the hammer was inscribed with the words, “Que sera sera.”

I didn’t have anywhere to put them.
Dale said he’d hold on to them for me.
I said, “thanks, man,” we shook hands,
both calloused and worn beyond their years.

We looked toward the ocean, blue and humbling in its immensity, searching for truths,
finding only vagabonds in waveforms.
Fascinated and frail;
distractions burned our pupil’s as light became dancing imagery and dancing imagery, brash reality; three buttons to the wind.
All fades, anesthetized by time and age- even the pain we carry with us.
But our walls will never crumble.

The waves looked fun.
The tide was low and the reef was shallow and sharp
I waved at Dale and said I’d see him in a little.
He sat down on the tall concrete wall from where my family and friends will one day gather to celebrate the freedom of my soul from my earthly body.
I walked down the goat path to the beach and stopped at the edge of the water: the abutment of dangerously sharp volcanic reef and water, and myriad grains of sand.

The axilla of divinity.

I jumped in and let the dropping tide pull me out back, fingertips and fins brushing the reef as I paddled.
The water was so clear I could see my dead best friends in its reflection.
While I found Zen in ocean, rhyming with its rhythm, pulsing with it’s pulses, weightless with nothing in mind, Dale must’ve walked back up the footpath because he was gone when I finished surfing and got back to the sand with a smile.
This is not unusual.
The sun was setting.
Desecheo glowed.

I found the hammer and chisel in a crevice of the base of the banyan tree where I hide my cigarettes and lighter.
I didn’t feel like having a cigarette; now or ever again.
I left them.
I grabbed my things.
Surfboard under my arm, a hammer and chisel in my free hand.I stopped and had a beer at my friend’s house.
The beer was cold and the night was warm.
Dale was gone, but I had all that I needed now.

“I Wanted Rhetoric. I Could Only Howl The Rotten Truth.”


Once wandering Wiccan Mother Goddess,

Bright Eyes, singing about the time she drove all night.

She was with him when he sang about Tabletops—but he didn’t sing about its toweringly tall palm trees or their sweet and ripe coconuts hanging just over the ocean’s edge, where water meets sand and the sand meets volcanic reef with bastard urchins in every crevice and neither of us brought sandals and that branch won’t support us both and how we won’t give a shit because we’re in paradise and what’s an urchin spine or seven anyways?

Instead he passionately sang about love and eternal friendship, “on fire with the same force that lit the stars,” and how life’s sweetest gifts are almost always toughest to reach.

Absolute Reality.

So, when it was time for her to go, he went, for only a fool would abandon love. All her life she sought a thing she could not name until she found him, outside of the circle she’d cast: in perfect love, and in perfect trust.