Life, After All

•February 17, 2017 • Leave a Comment

It’s a fatal flaw, and she weeps blood

of loss; tears so sweet, ants collect in

a wonderful passive line, they wait in

patience, for a drip drop drip; in moon

light night, a scared moment in wane,

a captive truncation, in valleys deep,




no bodies to speak of,

but the lasting hush, of breath and pyre,

struck down like thin walls, pale and

wanton, succumbing to motions, afar

she cries out, the village nearby, among

many who don’t hear; still the narrow

time breaks through, and the gilding

continues to paint the ground, a deep

red like no other, and the storm cleans

her face, and the brooding insects all

seek refuge, in their holes,



but time isn’t friends with man, so the

last moment isn’t recorded, and like

the day of her birth, she returns silent,

into the great mourning after, saccharin

sweet, her memory fades, and a tree

dots her death, for this is life after all.

Friday Writing Pinball; 2004

•February 7, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I started when it was dark, and I told the truth,

when I should have described it instead, I hear

every teacher I ever had, writing classes taught

me self-loathing habits, a full focus on how to

be yourself, while others misinterpret, and all


I am left with is a stack of papers, connected at

the corners by mismatched staples, or would it

be better to tell you how they smelled; I could,

but you’ve smelled paper, not imagine out loud.


If practice perfects you, then the more exposition

ensures a kill, Bambi, heart writing, explodes

in the reader’s mind, stimulating their neurons,

or something else, I didn’t research it, so now


I look like a hack; so here’s an allusion: chop

me down to size, so here’s a reason to forgive:

cliched love, notice I didn’t accent it? I’m not

sure any of them are proud, even if they were


they were all writers too, so telling another

writer you like them and their work, without

having some bullshit to sell of your own, puts

you in a bad situation, teachers suffer from


this the most; agenda-heavy assholes, ready to

criticize when they know less than you, unless

they don’t, then you are the asshole, and really,

aren’t we all assholes? No ending… this is art.


*Please note: This is not from 2004, and I didn’t proofread it.

If Birds Were Birders

•February 3, 2017 • 1 Comment

The blinds drawn in tight,

keeps the dead at bay, for

when I can’t stand any

longer, for the fire risen

like text in a book, append

to me, the great and godly

candle, sunken and bereft,

let the light effuse and bend,

let no man enter or call,

the shower is hot, and no

one dare unlock the door,

it’s that time, in the night,

when each step into the

hallway, is a half-step too

slow, and the passing

wind, but a hand to grasp

you, saddled with fear,

your next step a hop,

and your warm bed has

never saved you before;

zombies of preclusion,

hidden by castes and paints,

step into the lighted pines,

and kiss each fellow with

azure lips, flow like water,

whisper to the dead, each

moment in your life, but a

past of regrets, stand tall

in your house, anywhere you

go, and step away from

the shadow and dance like

no one is watching you.

What Comes, Stays and Breathes

•January 30, 2017 • 2 Comments

I will, I am, and with no doubt ever,

enraptured by the willful, ever awe,

when my eyes meet yours, and sand

couldn’t put them out; by the sour

morning mounts, belittled and sharp,

and I think about your golden light,

for evermore, and with the sanctity

of a monk in prayer, your fountain

I will anoint in, like a butterfly to a

Calendula, on the warmest day in a

year of fruit and wine, I am at the

mercy of your fragrance, raw and

timid, wistful and gracious, truest

morning glory, Delphinium, Phlox,

Scabiosa, Verbena, Liatris, forever.


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One lavender morning…

•January 16, 2017 • 1 Comment

… mist crept into a gala,

so pure, and when I am

alone, I remember this,

I think of it, and I picture

my father, in shorts,

picking lilacs in the

backyard, and I think

of their smell, and smile,

and move, and I sing

the praise of others,

even when I am untrue,

it brings with it a

sense of greater good,

of masterful moments,

and my tears aren’t

as salty then; morose

and steeped in fear;

no matter then, no one

mattered then, so I

hold it higher still,

among the last ones

I plan to keep with me,

this and her face, this

and her face in the sun,

that is my finality,

thank you for this poetry.

The Crucible and the Can of Worms

•January 12, 2017 • 1 Comment

… and there it sat, atop a hill on high,

a light, brigand of sultry encounters,

perhaps more than a suited salt of

slanted mayhem, my world a bean,

strung along aside it, but then circling,

soaring inside the lofty of wind lofts,

an albatross, carrion crawlers of peak

and valley hid, the sun piqued above

the piquant paste, a sweet dialect of

magistrates and maniacs, covering

my head I insisted to my guide that

the time had risen, and the birds were

there for us, shoving my hand about

my bag, I groped sinister, but I only

found a rose that a nun gave me one

morning, and then without the grace

of note, a swoop-winged, angry bird

pushed us towards the valley bottom,

and my guide gushed the reddest of

blood, which I slipped in as I stood

to run; moving along the widest plane

I had ever seen, the albatross hovered

above, I heard the wings sonic as I

called for help, but like it was all a

dream or a curse from the heavens,

the bird trailed away, leaving me to

wander alone; my guide dead; I sang

this song to a barroom maiden one

night in spring, but being a baroque

beauty, her swill swollen tongue only

spoke in verbs, so the can of worms

open’d, and a new story wrote itself,

leaving the crucible untouched again.


If you like this poem, consider checking out my poetry chapbooks on Amazon. Thanks for reading!

Hearty Hearts Effusive and Loud

•January 3, 2017 • Leave a Comment

“Woe to you,” vagrant old-timer,

shame for your ways, where a

bottle of wine suits you more

than a system that hates you;

your body scarred, time bitter

and world weary, grip it close

to your chest, your life will

soon find a star to collapse on,

your heart warm by your will,

strength to conjugate, mankind

forgotten, leather and sour ale,

you’re your own hero, even if

no one sees you rotting in the

street, filled with booze; love

and solace you have, worry

and misery for them; a quarter

is just one step towards more

warmth, to heaven and your

god, held in her hands, you

can recall, blistered and sad,

busty and beautiful, she will

take your heart and mend its

tears, while your concrete bed

may act hard, you know your

freedom is better than a life

with them; drink it all, there

will always be more, life is a

limitless bottle of drink, use it.