Counterfeits of Love

Words are lovers that never love;

Oblivious to the feelings they create;

For they may seem real and “tried and true”

Yet only in conveying a counterfeit

 In me and in you.


Words are lovers that words hold back,

The gatekeepers of freedom,

Enemy of passion,

Hater of too

Much Lust,

Desire, or

Any thought that is

Questionably undesired.


Words are a constricted construct

That conveys civil discourse

In spite of truth;


It’s no wonder why artists seek love

From an oft-void psychopathic troth,

Whose truth lies in the subjectivity

Of slathered-on lies

No matter how great the artist,

Artistic vision often dies


For meaning is in seeing

Because such love, fantasy,

Or whatever we achieve to see

Can never be


A syntax,

A code,

A signifier,

a handbook–

An ill-attempted imitation of me

And Thee,

Of destiny.  

IT Immortality


beautiful eyes

I met you there, or was it here—on my screen?  Your eyes fight through the façade of a painted face, yet the brushed-on exaggerations make you more vivid, more real, and a momentary inspiration for a lost and wandering mind.

You smile at me or is it the camera that you smile at? No. It’s easier to smile at the hidden world through a lens that is there because you let it be so close to you. You own it, but in using it, the world owns you. Though it does not judge you, it’s the gateway to a world that will do so in haste, for a laugh or for the many obscenities that trolls will lavish upon you.

Maybe you will get a compliment? Anything really meaningful; I think I must have hit pause by mistake in a somehow virtual binding struggle to freeze time and make your moment mine –to make you part of me. You are on my screen anyway, remember? You are now an artifact to be downloaded and uploaded for our personal viewing pleasure forever.

We often paint our faces to look older when we are young, and then we paint them to look younger when we are old. But everyone is on time-lapse here. You are there for a moment; your whole life in a database, on a screen, in a fantasy, it’s all in-between … the fact that you must have existed once on a thumb drive only to be deleted by the very finger that uploaded you a brief moment ago.

Though you seem so real, dancing in my office, on my bed, in the coffee shop and forever in my head, you are as if an angel, or maybe a devil, too. Intel and even AMD are not into playing moral favorites that human drama brings.

But never fear, a hacker may be able to resurrect your virtual self after finding your dead world in a recycling pile. He will surely upload you when you were most original but only if you look older when younger or look younger when older. You wanted to be ageless, so whether an angel or devil, he gets to play God. You get a kind of IT immortality. I’d take it even if naked.

When we are young, we wear less clothing to look older, and when we are older we wear more clothing to look young. We are always hiding “me” in the midst of searching for thee. We are caught in a search engine with the term “who am I?”

I asked Siri that question, and she told me my name and then said that “since we are friends,” she “gets to call me Jimmy.” She took it upon herself to name me a name she has heard before. Jimmy is 8, and, I, 48, but it makes no difference to a computer confused with only the order zeros and ones bring. Whether I am a man or a boy makes little difference to the genderless, ageless, sexless, and emotionless “girl” I have somehow befriended. Yet she is a constant in my life; I find her on every device beckoning me with her intelligent-less hyperbole.

But I think I just described a writer, a dancer, a producer, a photographer, and, yes, even a hacker. There is a kind of determined persistence in showing what is most horrible and beautiful in this world, so much so that the mundane has an ever-present feeling of security to it, an artful appeal.

I Am a 48-year Old Male Artist; This is Why I Love Girlhood


I was going to ask you if it’s okay to like girls and be a middle-age, well,

an old man?

I was afraid, as I have been my whole life, what the answer would be. I chose not to ask because I thought, that in the age of clicking on follows, paying for follows, and boasting about how many friends we have—friends that never read our profiles—it may be best to ask you for a bit of your time.

Don’t make your trauma my mistake;

Don’t make my trauma my fault,

The tricky business of a filtering-kind of transference.

I am tentatively hopeful that it may help, and hope it can change some lives.

If it does not,

I am sorry I wasted your time.


Here is a picture of a little girl. I ask you to keep her image in your mind, because, well, she reminds me of something, or, better yet, someone.


I am a horrible photographer and I cannot sculpt, paint, or even dance for that matter.

If I could, I would

Sculpt young girls,


Paint them,


And, if I could be a little boy again,

I would dance with them,


If I could be a little boy again.

I could have my friend back,


As I grew older, it happened, suddenly, violently, … as the years passed,

I grew fonder of

young girls.

She needs no branding,

no face-painting,

no smiling,

seemingly standing in the nude,

but only her face we see,

but not inappropriately,

to demonstrate pure and natural beauty,

so much like my muted mutual friend,


But being a man, having a like for girls, has a darker side for me and for my childhood


When I see her, I see the defiance of pretty but barely dirty bare feet,

Of a girl looking at me looking at her,

A bite away from the dangers of womanhood, of innocence lost, or has it been already lost,

On the cliff, the pending dusk of girlhood?

Me, not knowing if I should grieve or celebrate

Her pending glory and my childhood memories’ defeat.

A young girl biting into a green apple, with her dirty feet on the table

For it is in a young girl to be just so beautiful in presentation,

Yet so clueless to its affect,

Little adorable girl on a surfboard in the turquoise sea

She, now, defies age, by dancing like a woman,

Only to return a child again.

Is it inappropriate for a child to act a woman?

JoJo Siwa on Dance Moms

Sassy is in the middle somewhere, but

It’s demanded that men not notice.

So we pretend so,

For we are perverts, peeping Toms, or pedophiles?

Don’t make your trauma my mistake;

Don’t make my trauma my fault,

The tricky business of a filtering-kind of transference.

We yell, “Stay Safe, Stay Safe, Stay Safe” all the while

Multitasking on our phones with kids in back

Who’s driving this torment and chaos called life?

I have a confession; you know it; you suspected as much,

That I might like girls more than women because, in my defense,

Why would I not like someone that is


Funny facial expression of two cute girls


two girls make funny faces




But timid in shyness,


And bold when not supposed to be so,


And truly free?


Can you really blame me, when their only motive

Is to be happy,

And so it is with me?


I want the Me Too Movement to cease,

When we have equality and everyone

Can afford to be carefree,

When women and girls can be anything,

Any way they want to be,

Naked, or beautifully clothed

And we will truly value thee.


My wife said to me, when I feared the Lolita fantasy,

She said, “I think you want all of this to be okay;

You want the abuse you went through,

To be Okay,

And You want pictures of pretty young girls to be okay;

You even want abuse to be okay, because if it was,

Then no one would have had to get hurt.”

Closeup portrait of a scary little demon girl

Everyone would stop bleeding.

Syrian girl, credits, The Atlantic (if we only cared about violence)

At that moment, I learned, at present, that girls were better than me(n).

Can I like girlhood, please, and not be an offender, a pedophile, a pervert, or

A sleaze?

Can I make you uncomfortable, please, because deep down, you are afraid of me?


In my twenties, I learned that my childhood friend was killed—the accomplice was a school bus,


The murderer, a tractor trailer.

She burned to death.

And so did my childhood


Truck coming head-on

So I began to notice, after a year of crippling grief,

A beautiful face here,

0 RFNDXzQ1NzEuanBn

Beautiful toes there,


A whimsical presence and a tingling scare,

Even hopeful faces, I noticed,

With a growing and intense fear.

So my childhood lives within the images of girls

And hearts,

And contrasts between,

Evil and good,

Child and adult,

Savior or snake,

Tasteful and dignified nudity, not pornography,

Victim or punisher,

young girl with pet snake, isolated on white

But one thing is always the same.

Girls are B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L

And are so many things that I am not.

I want to be desired and beautiful; I want to have people look at me, have indecent and troubling thoughts; I want my image, longing, longing, in its disturbance and sassiness, and, like them, I want to be safe.

I want my dead friend,

the one that noticed me on the bus,

the ones you see above,

every school day, to be safe.

My art, no matter how limited, sexist, or shallow, makes me happy, and preserves,

through these young ladies,

What memories of childhood I have left.


I am a 48-year old male artist, and this is why I love girlhood.