The Scorpion

•April 26, 2016 • Leave a Comment

I. The scorpion in the reflection
of my time here
crawls in my eyes
and creates a veiled fear.

A caged image
of myself at sixteen.

The poison
tipped tongue full of spite

lacking a world
view and a brain to support
an argument;

spiked, barbed, bombastic

sorry and angry, like I am
today, unwilling to
apologize; you understand.

Like Der Panther,
pacing in cramped circles,
locked behind a thousand
bars yet the world still
looks the same.

A morose image as
an adult; a will to power
as a youth, at no age.

It’s true that I spent
most of that time
alone; what has changed?

II. Truth is worse than
it reminds me of why I
rattle and knock.


The sun and shade feel
the same when all
emotions bleed as one.


Spring and Winter
last the same amount
of time; I don’t try.
Each one has merit,
even when you are
locked inside; ad nauseam.


Each season is hidden
behind longing and
fatigue, saturated
by brine, soaked in salt.


Dirty fingernails and
cold dew, what more
is there? What is left?


I will always be sixteen.


I will always be angry
about concrete emotions
and sad rain.

The world remains the same under
a desert blanket as it does covered
inside ice and cold; heart changes.

I’ll look back with joy; even through ache.

III. I shall remember Rilke:

Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly–. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.

IV: Past is prologue.

Rum and Coffee

•April 25, 2016 • Leave a Comment

A bottle of booze,

     warm and familiar,

handled and sack’d,

     fragrant and sweet,

the woman cancels,

     the animals retreat,

it’s one, two quarters

     a coffee for warmth,,

handouts are illegal,

     HANDLES fulfilling,

bully it out of him,

     the stick in belt; loose,

 broken glass cuts,

     liqueur still burns;

school didn’t matter;

     your parents: dead.

The burdened proof.

     1976, Year of the Dragon,

past and memories gone,

     angry teachers glare hard,

cigarettes burning in stalls,

     caught for the last time,

saturated with blood,

     smacking your teeth,

a thousand times a day,

     your children: a dream.

Alone in a box, holding

     onto a dram, clutching

tight to your lifetime,

     when all you have is

what you had the day before,

     “bucks and bombs,”

nothing of worth, HANDLES

     of booze surrounding

your tent, pulls cost,

     free drinks ain’t a thing,

move on or taste a fist,

     panhandle your own coin,

Officer Robins didn’t ask,

     your bottle/friend in his trunk

you’re scum and you’re told,

     it’ll never end — his terror —

this life so pale and lost.

     The grass never reminds you,

when you were young,

     like it does with free men,

the key is in the sewer,

     your hands locked in chain,

the HANDLE of booze,

     attracts and maligns them,

when you get out of here,

     you’ll teach them for sure,

but until then, you think,

     “this bench has a roof over it,

at least I won’t wake up wet.”

April’s Snow

•April 21, 2016 • Leave a Comment

Prince was a pioneer and a talented artist. This poem is for him.

I started working,
I got lost,
like too much to drink,
like memories that don’t hurt,
like that one time… it’s
never that one time long enough,
is it?

It isn’t.

A creamsicle,
a purple rain, a red corvette,
a dramatic entry, a new love, no
worry, hunger erased

it’s amazing, what everything
isn’t, especially when it is

fresh dirt, rainy morning,
her lotion on her clean
body, recess in the first grade,
the last time you felt
appreciated, a glass of wine,
a crisp radish, saturated
clouds, a trip to the lake,
clean sheets, her eyes
in the morning sun, clean
elegance; smooth, clean fabric

enough to
make you wonder,

it isn’t ever like that one time,
even when it happens again. Once is
all there ever is; indescribable​

Because snow in April can make
you feel so, so sad.

Playbill Hero

•April 18, 2016 • Leave a Comment

It’s dead, competing with a sorrel
house, the mothered Earth had plans
and dandelions rule the spring.

I waited outside that night, looking
at her bedroom window after clearing the

Her body in repose in her single twin bed.

I scrawled a note in the snow,
hoping she would remember my touch, my heart;
my sadness seeping and bleeding all
over the silent crystals.

I heard nothing; 20 years later and I still

It was effort I made without response;
clearing her car, waiting for her return.

Being young
and stupid is painful.

Her voice
never sounded the same to me
again after that year.

The summer
ate a huge chunk of my compassion.

I wilted with the weeds of everlasting
when I realized that love can die,
and she moved towards the next
life like I was the afterthought on
a playbill.

I was once in the lead role, and then
teenage hormones were
replaced by logic. Fuck me.

1820 – Lost Dream

•April 14, 2016 • Leave a Comment

I wrote the loveliest poem in a dream,

unhinged and addled as I was.

And though no lines remained in the morn,

I can still feel the song.


The rhyme, the rhythm sang like a dream,

I composed each line with care.

The couch was cold and so were my feet,

but the riff came out of thin air.


I told myself aloud, in my fugue state,

work hard and “try to remember,”

but as the sun bled in over the horizon,

I left my dream with disdain and dismember.


Alas, my poem was lost, and the lines erased,

the night is the cruelest that there is.

The magic in my head danced in sundry carapace,

but my memory failed to chime in.


Perhaps a new night will reveal the lost beauty,

one can hope and eventually dream.

So tonight I plan to gently nudge it along,

and work hard to fill up a ream.

Poetry Chapbook #3 Posted on Amazon

•April 8, 2016 • Leave a Comment

Chapbook 3: Tribus: Ghosts


Clawing at Fabric

•April 4, 2016 • 5 Comments


The tragic is beauty;

a mournful morning,

and a bluebird’s passing

on a graveyard journey;


forgiving the light fall

and shadow the coatings,

if nothing lasts forever,

this is proof in showing.


But awareness isn’t health

and humans are replaced,

and the fog only passes

when you turn your face away;


from the ghosts of years past

and sadness immemorial,

hold your head in your hands

and cry aloud: raptorial.


Shameless promotion: For more of my poems, click below to check out my chapbooks on Amazon.

Poetry Chapbook 1: Aurora: Precepts

Poetry Chapbook 2: Duo: Dreams of a Sprung Mind

A third chapbook is in the works.


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