Friday, September 22, 2017


There are clinical terms
That I could use
To describe the things I am feeling
Just like you can take a pin
And slide it through the flesh
Of an insect, an animal
And mount it on a board
Take a clean white paper
And carefully label it
Preserve it under glass
A stagnant moment in time
Freed from context
And easily digestible

I've seen scorpions in resin
Dangling from leather cords
A decorative motif
To dress the necks
Of rebellious youths
But like the skulls on leather jackets
Or in baroque paintings
They are only a reminder
The suggested recollection
Of the existence of poison
It will never instill a shuddering panic
As would a hard dry carapace
The feel of parchment paper husks
Shifting against the softness
Of a woman’s breast
A coiled tail
Above a beating heart

So while I would gladly provide
Something clean and neat
With thick cardstock
And leveled corners
Bathed under clear slick gloss
I simply have no words
That equal the weight on my chest
This pressure against my form
And a shifting against myself
And frankly I am adverse
To the feeling of pins


I am a waterfall
I spill out over
The island of my bed
Which in turn unravels
In sheets and blankets
Cascading onto the floor
A thing which in turn
Is currently represented
By murky pools of black void
The conceit of carpet
Existing only but for
Object permanence
A memory
Of feeling and stability
Beneath my feet
The black out curtains
Consume the rest
Drink up all but a sliver
That bathes my world in blue
Not enough to see by
But enough to be reminded
Of the abyss

Thursday, September 14, 2017


Standing in a bathroom
The muted notes of horns
Slips through the plywood

Had I not noticed it anyway

Instead of a mirror
There is a painting of a snake 
A stylized cobra
Dreaming of skateboards
And motorcycle jackets

So instead I stare at this
Pink Himalayan Salt Stone
That could 
In some sense
Provide for a bit of reflection
Just not the kind I need

But mostly
It doesn't really work at all

Nothing here
Is really what was intended
It's not really
What anyone wants

In the corner
There next to the door
I see ants
Swarming over something
That I can't quite make out

When I get closer
I see the corn kernel body
Of a dying beetle
Collapsed in a divot in the concrete floor
Shifting one of its remaining legs
Unable to get out

And I want to do something
But I can't seem to move
So instead with one arm
I find the door


They fall for me when I am up
When I am a whirling rapturous thing
A dream they can cling to upon waking
A whispered sense in their depths that suggests
Magic is a thing
That could actually exist
An implied but unspoken promise
Dripping with what might be
Seductive candy coated insinuations
Of things to come

They yearn for something
That can't be pinned down
Or neatly stored in small keepsake boxes
A life outside of the chaste treasured totems
In scrapbooks and photo albums
They want to be brought to flame
For something that inverts their insides
And redeems them
Of their acceptance
Absolves them of settling
And of their resignation
Under the weight of could have beens

But a map is not a doorway
And I am not Atlas
So there will be times
When the world is to much to bear
And I won't have enough light
To ignite the stars
So when reality crashes in
In it's inevitable rising tide  
Carrying routine and disappointment
Rhythm and rote
Then even the afterimage will fade
And in the end they leave me
when I am down

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Shatter ★★★★

Sometimes the sky is meteoric
Black sheen glossy obsidian dark
And I can see the hands reach down
From trembling inverted mountain peaks
As the framework rafters bow and scream
I see the silver fish
In the sidewalk gutter gardens
As they move the moon carves up their backs
Making empty nests for writhing birds 
That speak warnings in whispers
Of winter upon us
The dark is coming to lay down 
Like a lover at my feet to rest on my body
To pull me under and eat my thoughts 
Until I am empty and hollow and freezing
Until my head is just a radio
Filled in between with the cries
Of the sun and the weaving of the waves
Of the great invisible rivers 
That run through my fingertips 
And point at the north star
Everything is slipping downward 
Some intimate black box hold
Like barbecue lenses and train turntables
Catatonia speaking cotton
Bach and the invisible harmonica dreaming
Quilt weighted beaches 
Remembering wet sheets and drowning
And then you say something
And the world sets back in
Everything clear

Obliviate ★★★

I was going to write a poem
In beautiful words I'd express 
The way your ghost had returned 
The black weight,  the cherished pit
But you aren't worth
Being caressed by silk soft words
To wrap around you in gossamer glory 
Instead I want words
That splinter and rot inside you 
Your existence has become a blight
On my precious memories of you
And it would be distressingly easy
To wrap you in shimmering anamnesis
To see you through a lens turned back
So maybe once you might have been
My summer
My poetry 
But now you're just an asshole

As Intended ★★★★

I wrote a poem on this page
I had addressed it to you 
But I erased it
Line by line 

The only part I kept was the end

It read

We play this game 
Where we never ask questions 
And never get answers

Which was really everything 
That I had wanted to say

And I suppose you could ask
Exactly what I meant

But you see

Miss Connected ★★★★

When our bodies were divided 
It was discovered
that we were full of emptiness 
That there were great gaps inside us
Each of us a vacant night sky
Pinned with particle stars

The only reason I feel 
Your skin under my fingertips
Is because every atom of my being
Yearns to push you away

Some suggest that
Under certain impossible circumstances
We might become unphased
And slip into each other 
Our bodies converging
Into some inextricable complication

Perhaps in some other parallel place
Some ghost of a dream
The strings tied around our fingers
Would have wound a different way
And my hand would have found
The empty spaces in yours

Maybe this is how things happened 
To someone much like me
And a person I could mistake for you 
But as things are
We just brush against each other
Feel the flaring insistent sparks of a current 
That composes the very things that we are
And walk away

Let's Run Away Together ★★★★

Let's run away together
I've grown tired of waking up in these sheets
That smell like the past
Of obligation and complication
Lets slip away under a shroud of night
With only the light from your eyes to guide the way
We'll walk barefoot on dew coated grass
Through hidden mountain passages that take us
To a home that only exists
Bound between thin cardboard leafs
Lets get married
We'll find some small town chapel
Full of well-meaning old hideaways
Who we will beguile with decadent lies
Like fine chocolates and silk from our smiles
We'll set up camp like stalwart explorers
Eat fast food and jars of peaches
We can make blanket forts of the pews
We'll drape honeysuckle from the pulpit
And bells from the windows
We'll open the doors to the moths and fireflies
And anyone else who will come
If they ask what it is
What we're all on about now
We'll tell them it's their high school reunion
A bowling league
The Armistice Day Singers
And we'll smile and say "come in"
You'll wear a key from your neck
And a band of Russian amber
And I'll wear a dress
Lined with baby's breath and butterfly wings
Instead of sharing champagne
We'll put on matching crowns
And raise our hands to the sun triumphant
Conquerors of everything we could be
And owners of everything we couldn't
And as the cold night air settles in
We'll play music on my ipod
With not a single song about love
We'll find a best man and make him toast to the absurd
And the pointlessness of life and loving anything
And everyone will be confused
And nothing will make sense
To anyone at all

Except for you
to me

And me
to you

Untitled ★★★★

I love to watch the way his body moves
I like to see the plates of bone within his back
Flex into a seamless crease above his spine
The shifting of the cords that bind his shape
I like the branches that rest under his neck 
From which he hangs the bell that holds his heart 
When it rings I feel it in my breath 
Because I see it in his eyes
Fluttering like the wings of moths
Shimmers of iridescence and the memory of midnight
It threads through me in a tightening embroidery 
I could feast eternal on that moment
My eyes devouring his 
Without his knowing he has become
the dagger in my breast that severs me
I watch his hands as they shift and tense
The line of his neck, that place I could bury myself 
I watch, waiting for him to break
Give himself away in a glance or a smile
Some unguarded elusive ruptured suture
And he'd shuck his skin like coils of birch bark
Let himself unbind unravel and peel off in layers to rest at my feet
So bare that I can see inside him
Presenting a core of being to which I could press myself 
Like a flower among his pages
A moment where he is nothing but what he is
And I would know it like I know the coursing of my blood
The singing of the spheres
A truth unintentionally and so softly given
Piercing and momentous and tiny and frail
Painted on his body in the way the surf engulfs the shore

Broach ★★★★

The world feels like a day dream
The lights and colors are cutout cardboard
On matte black backing
The city swallows the stars
And my mind diffuses my memory of them 
The images I conjure falter
In disconnected static
Just like how I can't remember
The look on your face
I only recall how it made me feel
The pressure in my throat
Inside me your eyes are a blank void
A curtain to hang the stars
Your hands are fragmented pieces
Like exploding shrapnel
Nothing holds me
Nothing keeps its shape
Nothing is certain 
Other than the feeling of my breath over my lips
The rise and fall of my chest
I can hear the shuddering sound of it 
And I want to fill it with your name
But I know it would just slip away
A dying dislocated notion
Dissipating like fog or a dream upon waking
And I need some small thing to still feel real
I need some way to keep you here