Sunday, January 8, 2017


His life embers were confided 
into a velvet pouch,
and out of the resulting fire
several children did emerge 
from the mud and the ash.

He would grow afraid of them,
with their clumsy words firing at him
like darts and their tiny hands
always clawing about his face,
especially the eyes.

Then the sleep sickness began,
which he attempted to cure
with insomnia and drink.

Each time he swallowed,
it tasted like a door opening
and life outside of his own walls
would flash in his periphery.

Recording details of this world
proved the hardest,
as it was constantly being
distressed and destroyed
even when he was not looking.

The sleep sickness controlled 
the vortex of his evenings,
cursing him with the night flu
followed by an hour of painful sleep
where his eyes were wet and gassy,
awakening in a stupor 
bloated with nausea.

He had meathooks for eyes
and his skin burned 
wherever his clothes touched.

This was his course,
charted long before words like
had any meaning,
and it wasn’t the children
that collapsed his heart
but the directors of hands and speech
showing them how to break his nose
in just the right place
while piercing his dignity
with phrases machined into perfect spears. 

Tuesday, January 3, 2017


Fare thee well, Landlord of the Tenth Circle,
For I must depart upon breaking our unholy treaty
I have woken to the sounds of the greasy beach
Of crawling rubber and fragmented beer glass
And the swell and fade of fresh diesel breezes
That blow like monsoons through window and door
I have discovered mysterious hidden crawlspaces
And learned the lovemaking cycle of my neighbors
The nicknames of all participants and God Himself
Far more thoroughly than a curious man should want

Fare thee well, Bastard of This Broken Shelter,
For I must escape while I have breath to breathe
And enough strength to carry myself up and away
As your internment camp has stolen my best years
And I have become frail contemplating the emptiness
That has consumed my soul since its purchase
With the fool autographing a dotted line of ink
Across from a thief holding out a dirty brass key

Fare thee well, Traitorous Class War General,
For the trebuchets are lined across the boulevard
Among the siege towers erected as middle fingers
The final rent will be rendered in payloads of fire
As flaming rock penetrates your office walls
Covering the downstairs laundry in broken brick
-Your intimate things will be scorched and buried-
The remaining janitors will never find your head

Fare thee well, Bandit of The New Stockholm,
Ghost author of the words yet to be written
Of pain hanging heavy in every inch of my veins
Living outside the carefully manicured darkness
Whose shadows protected my heaviest sorrows
Where I learned to claw through Earth into light
To later romanticize over long lost nightmares
Cherishing each season spent inside your hell
Fare thee well, fare thee well, fare thee well...

Friday, December 30, 2016

The Eastern Chapter

(NOTE: This is a pet project of mine that I started some years ago. I wrote it using abstract prose as a way of coming up with a very fluid language that creates a sublime world that shows sparkles of familiarity but is still quite curious. There are more chapters, but I wanted to test the waters and see how it would be received outside of my own head.)

The Eastern Chapter

    I spent my love under the Eastern caravan, barely leaving it alive. I waited high like a longing touch for the grave, rode the week gone by, and stopped to get one last view of the passing Summer. Summer is the year that I rode with you, one helmet for the both of us like a shell full of every small thing you know about me. A little wild, a little burned, a little wicked in the caravan again.

    So I told you you should be Queen while we were resting cold on the grains. I danced until you told me it’s time to go, until the Earth doesn’t take the young into the unknown. Your’s so wicked.

    Wintertime now, gone is the Summer from my baby and it’s time I met the Earth. She led your daughter to the dead and their bullets. I’m at war...war that lives in the hills, luxuriant moans that create the baby and hold onto the evening.

    And it goes, “Breathe up; tell the Earth, soldier, practice lies in the caravan.” Could the mystic one be you (and to you, “Hello” I say) but we be in it together? Yeh, I’m free...might have some stored wickedness left, knowing that again when the world meets its children, it gets lies.

    For an hour under the lake, the flow be the wind...the warm Spain that I run to someday. Love me with your dance, go and tell an unknown love that you rode with me. Tell them to witness us getting to the sea. Tell them we laid.

    “Breathe up.” Under you, from me, come more mystic children every year. You all were angels when we were riding. She guessed the minister was me, and this is why I won’t run. She wants the time to pluck along, more of us with her each way, still taking the love road until the shadows notice me. Yeh, I believe the King is laughing at me...I ran down that road and woke up to this game.

    Me, I’m a promised flower, and one of ours is going to take a run at the understands. And who knew about me trading gardens? Summer is a weather where we had to run North, hide under the house, myself remaining so hollow. This begged me to be the soldier.

   In the street, I could tell you she was good at inventing. The minister’s hold on the mystic children lets them out five at a time. To an unknown driver, that’s death. Bullet crazy.

    She went free, then we met. We did go wild in for a love while getting love to hold for the devil. Free just happens like that. Not for a while we wondered about a baby, having fallen like we did in the garden. “You’re so wicked,” I told the King when he was dodging all my joy. Beheaded screams know that road, woke the expedition who were invited to return again.

    I took to the lies and to the water which knows when a moan is riding. In town, she could tell we were still kept in the shadows. She crouches again, takes in reason. “You keep what...Spain? Like a wild driver? One is back, and you’re gone?”

    Morning was spent together, and we took a run into wisdom. I confessed that she subtracted you, wealth comes to you, love knows no one over you. I’m almost a soldier now. It’s almost time, monkey. Lazy or crazy, she is without me now. She is time’s daughter walking into the house of the caravan with her song on the sidewalk, or on the farm in fall.

    She told you we heated those lies to hear you scream away, take the money back, and to the left was your devil. And we were almost home.

    Sun on our house (it has been a while), and there in the red world...let’s love and get changed together. It’s good to repent. He tells me so. Even so, you were the one out being moved, eyed me and rode again so wicked. This is where we wear robes and get the angel’s lies.

    I fell wild in the times. Got lost there. Run, rode, took you to the chair. In galleys, you had been to the end and love was free in your hair. Her game was Flower of the Sea, and we loved to ask lies of the angels in Spain. I love lying. I believe we asked the Earth not to run, and when love got there tell them it was burned by the sun. We did it at noon, and almost to the house the corpse was eyed. We aided the arms on our street while the drivers tried to see into the blue. Will we see its name? Run them now, they’re home. The drivers’ robes were the galley’s invention, and she no longer breathes in the mansion, for my gold helmet is spent on my baby during the year we were so together.  We were in soldier practice one day, and you held a drowned love to comfort the angels...but me, headless until the summer’s garden.
    I’m warm and Summer’s so long when at sea. She robes herself and had but one love at Wintertime now; me, in the angel’s trees. Together, we’ll be the one that gets through freezing, coming good for all to see and have her run to the house of our guests. She now goes East with the dogs.

    We meet once more, and the touch is in Spain. Soldier practice strikes away the time. Summer’s gone walking, and it shall be a cold hour before she rides this flower again. Yeh, run with the lies. I’ll tell you, tell a thing but run to the house. The numbers added us across the valley together, into the underwater devil. Good together, so we wait under again. Get the soldier, practice knowing and pleasing and coming longer.

    Then they could turn love finer, and you could run my next promised love. Take the Northern unknown to your luxuriant wants and you’ll see my lies there. I am the sun burn, and I know the hold of the cold East nights. Tell them we’re dead together. Yeh, riding the East with our arms together. Know my hand, and I’ll know the monkeys inside your dead river. Lazy love is dead, bullets in the lake, the fight, for love be gone. We’re all over crazy, she with the East and me almost no.

    Do be gone. We are far, she is you, and we are in a good hand. Try to seek her, and if I tell, come.

Wednesday, December 28, 2016


In your eyes there is a deep
     debt of life
          where people made you

whose inexperienced hands
     have mended your leaky roof

catch the morning bells calling
     for the newborn day to break
          you answering all its appeals

               yes,          yes,          yes.

In your eyes there is a deep
     love of loss
          that lives life in unorganized

that welcomes the dripping
     of rain from the ceiling

The small tornadoes of your soul

     hiding away pieces of your heart
          in the tranquil fury of your living

Until one evening you catch
     death singing in your shower,
          mumbled verses into chorus go

Spend your heart
          on the living
                    but invest your time 
                              in me

                                        hand me a towel

                                                  I am drenched

Tuesday, December 20, 2016


a p o l o g i e s.

We cannot call the deceased author's collection a posthumous


After reviewing




there is absolutely 



evidence that 


was ever 

i t a l i c s

p e r i o d


Monday, December 19, 2016

V Or Bunny Ears Or…Some Awkward Exit

I find company where no children live; 
laughing with barren mothers, admiring 
the shadowy trees my left hand shapes 
of fingers stretched at less than perfect 
angles - a sad cigarette dangles - drinking 
what is left of the best blood around town. 
Chasing a spark that may have never been 
lit, I follow my senses through the faint 
smoke in the endless fountain of city air 
& waiting for me is an old vacant stool 
next to a Rottweiler named Zoey & 
her handler for the evening. We were all 
cool inside of the sudden pressure as the 
barometer struck midnight (may someone 
help us if our lungs are lulled to sleep). 
This all plays across my fuzzy pupils as I 
felt the drool seeping through my left sleeve 
& Zoey was resting on my sleeping arm now, 
abandoned by a man she never quite knew 
(clinging to another that she never would) 

& as humidity forced my sudden departure, 
I tied her leash to her chair, frowned a smile 
& said "Don't worry. Someone's gonna find 
a way to love you" & flashed a peace sign 
goodbye, my arm still warm from the release 
of her thick broken heart, elbow to wrist 
and every sensitive spot in between.

Something Similar To Sinking

I feel most glorious when
Being crushed in laughter
Even my own demise is
A grandiose comedy when
Played out in your hands

If you remove my mouth
I will die of your hunger
And my shadow will wilt
In a motion similar to sinking
Through the elapse of the day

The way my backbone bows
Will be an old weed bending
In your indifferent wind
Or one unread page turning
In your casual fingertips

When you catch the sun's tail
Tracing the brim of the world
I'll be waiting at dusk's encore
Standing and clapping, yes
I'll stand and clap for you

There are spaces in my joints
Where aching is packed so tight
It vibrates up to my jawbone,
Makes me laugh through the pain
And I call that moment Grace