Tuesday, October 17, 2017


Somewhere in the lies

In being ignored

In the being taken for granted

this atonement

For all the time I have squandered

Where I have done the same to others

And I know the reason—

Because they can.

The why is the same

as we enact a kind of bitter dance

that is always off-rhythm

in every expression of “sorry my phone died”

“I meant to call you back”

It's there in the corner of your eye

Divisive in its own absence

as memory that cannot be placed  

There is a kind of cultivation 

that never takes hold

a regrowth that never occurs

from all of the hurt inflicted 

within others as with myself

not remorseful

like desert tears 

that never come


across a landscape of explanation

where words that never become actions

as prey to deception 

in the twilight hours

where I commit you to memory

inside of the concept; unbecoming

not meant to be—

inappropriate for this scene- 

as black leafless trees

reach into the air 

like arteries to a cold shite sky 

in veneration of being ravaged by flames

channeling a dissonant chorus of silence

Sunday, October 15, 2017

the yearning

I’m hungry in my heart for a thing I cannot name

As an absence in my soul to a place I cannot frame

dreaming of these things non-stop constantly

To a place in my mind that yearns to be set free.

There’s a whisper in my soul that remains not at rest

Within this fragile form where I have tried to do my best

And I’m breaking on the inside like the tide upon the rocks

devoid of feeling within myself like a fortress full of locks

How many thoughts of this have I held within my heart

In the realities of our world where they never seem to start

And I wonder on the futures of what is yet to be

With eyes upon the love that I never seem to see.

And I want to say I’m hopeful that this will come to pass

like goals of finding something designed to fully last

Like gazing upon horizons in visions of the blessed  

yearning for something more than language can express

Wednesday, September 27, 2017


Sitting beneath one of them

 I think of you,

As they call to me in dreams of memory

Awoken to visions of family and connection

Laced in the opulence of some arid place

If even dry of thought

Desiccated from pushing themselves

Where I’ve run aground in the charade of concern  

In the seams

where desert minds wander

When contemplating weakness—

And my skin has shed repeatedly

In this season of summer moons

as peels of endurance scattered all around me

And I wonder on where you come from

What it means to be of the same place as you

Where we face the thirst for content

In our different ways

When the wind and the heat are a song of triumph

When embracing the hunger and the thirst slake the boredom

I wonder, what it means knowing how the hybridization of technology has brought us together

And I wonder, aesthetically, of what the future holds for us

and I wonder…

what you’ll think when you hear this .


There is an aesthetic

A dream; 

a whisper

In tension and strife

In struggle and solace

In the fringes where decay absolves memory

minimal and horrific in the way that;

You never get a second chance to make a first impression–

& it feels like molted feathers

blowing away

in an arid wind


As if pins sliding past the teeth of a key

I am unlocking some. kind. of… thought-feeling-future

Endlessly hatching ideas

Dissecting words

words like “content”

where I watched a person fillet an eel alive

& it filled me with an emotion that was both impressed…

and mortified

there is something to be realized –

in how our minds work; in that –

the manner for which they are sharpened is a kind of survival in the making

and you make it; one day at a time

with every thought and feeling—

with every belief and idea—

with every expression.

We unlock the future with the key of our thoughts

Inside those thoughts and feelings

the seeds of your future self ae already planted

In the universality.

of what it means.

to grow.

Friday, August 11, 2017


Waking from dreams of you

In missed calls, and read messages

spaces of the future

where the possibilities collapse

without memory

swept away in the desert

in plumes of dust and sand

what kind of gift is this?

To endure,

unrelenting days in unforgiving heat

as hallucinations

of what will not come to pass.

And I am caught

In the mixture of feelings

Divided by the hurt

and the beauty

and the power

reigning over desiccated landscapes

in futures of what could have been.    

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

hooker eyes

This image of tiny, thin childish limbs through the crowd
grabbing it with deference, beating me to my half-hearted attempt
her eyes looked like an animal in clouded amber
this hippie child. Shoeless and filthy
reverent and resolved, throwing herself to her knees before me
snatching up that huge dusty cricket
casting a dirty hand down upon the creature
between meaning and curiosity
vanishing into a desert of memory

this idea of mechanized  technology
rising through azure banners
chains writhing and stretching
wings treacherously spread as dark fingers across the sky
as a ruthlessness that never tires
in triumphs of self
become the corrupted and the corruption
like hookers eyes vacantly looking  
into nothing of significance

this feeling of failure
pours into me like a hull breach
Erodes the enamel of my will where loyalties evaporate
through various lenses
a symphony of savagery takes hold
playing out the story of my past transgressions
where so little seeks recognition
save for the grace of time
refracting us apart into possibility.

this dream of the future
I once held
foreign and distant
Like a long awaited goal that I once believed  
as a trail into dry and hostile mountains
what sort of man have I become?
bearing teeth and talons at all opposition
shedding feathers and words dismissively
as mind frames of collapsing catacombs

this hatred boiling up inside of me
galvanized in rage and hunger
primal in that way that I cannot relent
burning as a wildfire that obliterates everything I once felt for others
in amphetamines and squalor
how broken I feel when I look upon those eyes
how disappointed I have become to the illusion of myself  
& they look upon me as if I am the rising sun
to grant some kind of salvation

this memory of another era
Essentially simple and yet sedated
laced in breathy words and sweat
Panting out all the echoes of what I have been
exacerbated in the marks of flesh and endurance
disposed of as wretched machinery
in the wake of some greater monument
As the objects of becoming
render my soul in shards

this subtle power pulsating outward
into the earth and trees and minds
sensitive and hardening
gripping and addictive
overwhelming in its implications
leaving me so bastardized and alone
flavored in sensations of power
viscerally unforgiving
to the blindness that represents man   

this unrelenting state
fetishizing my unedited self
delving man and mind without hesitation
defending belief and innocence
in deft strokes and actions
are they but simulacrum?
Seeking to emulate this, ability
I would watch a pit a of men
beat each other to death and feel nothing

This future that spreads before me
met with resistance
How they must sense my desire to control them
Yet, they resist in their way
unable to grasp what that reality holds
in terms of precognition
deeply yearning
for the simplicity
of a child chasing bugs