This Song is for You

•December 7, 2017 • 4 Comments

My dad would have been 71 this month. He died in 1994.

Here is a poem I wrote about him, which I posted once before, but seemed fitting for today. Thanks for reading.

One lavender morning,

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.


Proof; Symbols; Crash; Strum

•November 21, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I’ve done it right, if not once,

but twice in my life, I never

want to know when, though,

knocking rust from my shoes

feels better but badder still, and

yet I travel, still, maybe for

the next time in the dark, under

skinny stars, squinting through

deep clouds, well at least from

here, if I had a dim lighthouse to

climb, for you, with you, we

could see their rays, for real, for

eternity, but in depth, the death

is too real, not a figment, but

I try to live on, past it all, let

this moment, the one in which

you remember your successes,

be the last memory, the final

piece of the ballad, the whistle

soldiering on, succulent-sweet,

this trip is the last time you

choose to think, about this,

about this one thing, for once

and lift the lights for the curtain

call, and bow, but try not to fall


•November 15, 2017 • Leave a Comment

In the tunnel of trees

my arms slouch towards

the green, in your absence,

my eloquence is at stake,

but I can feel the music,

again, again, again, and

taste the salt in my tears

every time the water hits

my face, heals my wounds;

for each end an end sits

impermeable, but terror

knows not my language,

so my body’s music is still,

static, if only while I forget

A Box Plait

•November 10, 2017 • 3 Comments

He brought wine;

red, rosé;

and in front of a

flaming car

her memory

opened it and smiled,

all teeth,

from ear to ear,

and she drank from

the bottle

like a jackal,

her eyes alight

like her mother’s,

and he swooped in

and offered a glass,

chivalrous then,

her hand stretched

out – long and white –

indifferent to

the fire; fueled;

and his blood

dripped into the glass,

she licked her lips,

and drank again

like this was her

final time, because

it was, and his

new Kentucky

home smells

cold like leaves,

dirty and crisp,

dead outside; shell;

and his blood

is black from guilt;

taut and sick;

like it should be,

and hope died,

a little more,

that September,

when ignorance

drove home


Black Out Bed Fellow

•November 2, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I am warm, and my head is on fire,
and I can’t stop shaking, I fumble
around and whisper to myself, to
every person I am, who I was, who
I will become, like driving in the
rain, each person I pass different,
yet all the same, living in muck
and loving the brilliance of life,
even in this terrible space, so cold
and wanton, I acquiesce to each of
myselves, kowtow to their terror,
waking madness in masquerade,
shivering inside, bleeding outside,
stuck pigs never had it so good,
but the closet feels safe of all,
dark and fenced in, hemmed up
and basking in the resplendency
of despondency, in this cell, like a
prisoner in a book, not even the
birds sweet call can be heard, but
I will trade that for false safety and
no fear, no wear and tear on this
fragile eggshell mind, never a sad
sack or jovial buffoon to ruin my
morning or evening, lying awake
at night, the world is heaviest of all

Bellum Omnium Contra Omnes

•October 31, 2017 • Leave a Comment

… and it was so, as it was every November,

when each leaf nestled into its new pad,

collapsed upon the ground, mulch for a

new season’s growth, in awe we all are,

at nature’s beauty and swell, to make a

trip to natural lands, and to soak it in eve

after morning, in delightful arrogance,

which is suffering in gratitude and grace,

of autumn’s shivers and savoy, as our

inevitable end, in spite of how much we

are convinced of our value, is the same

as leaf that we admire, as ugly as it is…

“Pan” by Knut Hamsun

•October 15, 2017 • Leave a Comment

“At other times, even quite unusual happenings cannot avail to lift a man from dulness and poverty of mind; one can sit in the middle of a ballroom and be cool, indifferent, unaffected by anything. Sorrow and joy are from within oneself.”

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