Shimmering & scintillating

like stars of unfathomable distances

in the Milky Way’s hinterland,

are your oculi, so aqueous

in their passionate salience –

gently chiseling estuaries

betwixt follicles & non-blemishes

in expectation of post-precipice









from your downcast jaw.

I’ve never witnessed a more

perfect imperfection than your

lugubrious sobs-

reverberations from the turbulent nature

of mutual adoration.

This perplexing instant is

as much affection as those amorous

moments of

dessert-partition & wild-flower bequeathals.

The culmination of devotion & infatuation is

a spectrum.

In unity we are first & foremost

genuinely sentient beings


our crux is our capacity to overcome.

So here’s to all of it,

all that love entails,





Haven’t you heard, love,

Sweet tones wept – the waterfall bird?

Colourful ballads; follies in forest,

Moving mighty aspen, moaning when stirred.

     This year makes the third.

          A heavy heart clots.


Not unlike the dove,

White with love interpretation.

Bees, brooks, and trees’ leaves form a warm chorus

As her song croons, so dense with sensation.

     Life liberation.

          Who floats and who rots?


It echoes and flows,

Both haunting and peaceful in ways.

It kills men, still some it will please.

It crows, crows, crows, crows, crows through this gray haze.

     Is shock more than daze?

          I know that you fought.


The waterfowl knows

Its soul and song ends by knife;

White stained crimson, unintentional ease.

I searched hard for peace, though it was not rife.

     All I’ve found is strife,

          Not that which was sought.



My mind much astir,

my body still more.

Pulses are yours,

inhabit this place like a sore.


I hope you are settled there,

blanketed with warmth.

I haven’t forgotten your face nor your place at this hearth.



, ,

An introduction to the succulent
cuts that
cuts that
cockeyed clots bow in conjunction
in furious rivulets less innocence
the herd follows scars
down sighing thighs tired and tied

by living gravity.

I am neutrinos.
I am dark matter.
I believe myself unbelievable. I fathom myself unfathomable.

What I seek I keep where I’ve yet to find,
for what I seek is deep in a set mind.
I understand I stand under Frost
distraught by the burden of the cost.
I am a painter, pensive at the sill;
I am a writer whose heart cannot still.

All I think I know
is I know I think.

Therefore I quill in ink and fly.

This passion will be the death of me.
I would have it no other way.
(there is no other way)

8:32 am, PDT. May 18th, 1980.



So what happens now.

I watch the chrysanthemums blossom

out of the rivulets in the brown snow.

Sepia world, full of things that

may be vibrant.

I do not see you in the aftermath.

Did I ever see you.


I lean in for an obligatory

final kiss.

Trying to savor

lips come closer.

I touch frosty white cheeks.

Feel your tongue tip


convex, cavernous crater.


Eyes open to smoke.

They water at your disappearing act.

Esophagus rejecting

it in puffs,

undone cuffs.


So we watch the

Reds? Oranges? Yellows?


Your white robes have been shed.


You’re no Saint.



, ,

An exciting dichotomy in the body;

One toward the North

One toward the Else.

Tugging then urging.

Gravitational forces- My appendix found a purpose:

An axis, A moderator.

Still slightly worthless.


I have found

the year of the drunken Cardinal

I have drowned

the tears of the sunken Marginal


How could a field so relative

be lacking in fences?

Roll down a hill-

tumble in a school.

Find yourself one of many-

like goldfish in bliss

one-second memory

discord as melody.


Are the homeless pushed upon the train? – A thought.

The Conductor pumps the gas


waves his wand as he


-sans isogloss.


The day I Ride this Fucking caboose to Hell

I will laugh at Satan’s crisp, white lashes

    my exhalations clouding his vision

    like hail in the summer.




I’d surely thought that by the time I found my poetry journal, all the inspiration randomly flooding my brain would be long gone. Apparently not. (Although it’s a bit of a cop-out seeing as I just used an old Astronomy notebook. Or, as I like to call it, my collection of my most elaborate doodles & drool ponds.)


But a pen is touching paper by my hand, so I guess the mission is complete.


Sitting here musing, I’ve come to an impasse with one story that won’t leave my head. In my American Poetry class, our professor often starts off our period by asking us to Freewrite about the poetry compilation we’ve read preceding class (as in, right before class, or even right at the very moment, for most). But here’s where I get caught up.


I’ve always found Freewrites to be a paradox.


You’re telling me to write freely.


That’s like saying, “Willingly vote for Obama or I’ll punch you in the face.” (Although this sounds more like a Romney supporter command. BAZINGA!) Any authenticity of the work which we produce now is marred by the professor’s external influence. About this time along the scenic journey of my train of thought my Prof notices my paper void of scribbles and mouths, “Right now!” (Write now?) ((hmmm..))


The truth is, I do some of my best work during his lectures about poetry because I always sit near the window. I gaze out at the trees, students, and cyclists……


          O’ crisp afternoon

          I swoon for your

          trivial sizzles

          disturbing nerves

          into a flurry

          sending scurries

          up my spine

          intertwined with

          my brain &

          you sing to





          until I abide.

          Yes, thy will be

          done, Yes thy

          Kingdom come,

          but only I

          am able

                       to see

               You’re free.


…but I am not. I’m shackled to letters & numbers that dictate my worth.

What a fucked up world, eh?

Ha. There’s more out there. I know it. I will find it.


Until then, I’ve got ink and love….. and food. Don’t forget food.




, , ,

                                                       intonation of a quandry.






Her eyes the   r

S. t. a. c. c. a. t. o. stilettos communicating code.

   Morse IS a language.

<—A phonetic philosopher= repeat.


                                       round             &             round



                                        (here lies)

these sounds will turn to         STONE.

                                           6 FEET



             But                        TO GOD

               they were his life giver.