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