Saturday, April 22, 2017


Like a falcon

Falling from the sky

Tissues of psychosis

In the searing sun

There is some paradox

Within my soul

That answers to the question

Why we are the jungle:

As if the confession:

I live for the carnage.

Like thunder in the desert

Insulated in the dust and wreckage

As blossoms in the night

Ephemeral and deft

How many æons has it been?

At the helm of my voice

Consumed in pointless conversations

As a perverse misuse of language

In tears of man

I have seen the mind lacerated

it scars in time, I guess,

Yet, this is not of my concern

Like tearing at carrion

recognizing opportunity

where articulating

is a survival tactic

on par with poisons and thorns

reducing us to bones in the merciless sun

Thursday, April 20, 2017


I wish to grow with you
For many changing seasons to come
Where we put the chaos of our current lives behind us
And shape a timeless future
As dreams where you are with me
awoken and new
to the ballet of a beautiful life.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017


Running scared through a forest fire

They thunder on hooves and paw

Embers whipped up with each panicked step

As sparks erupt from immolating trees

How has otherness decimated your landscape?

Deceptive and foolish

Immature in every facet

And I watch it burn from a distance and feel an indescribable ache

How has sorrow graced this landscape so completely?

Trampling all that I have sought so desperately to cultivate

The jungle shrieks but only I can hear it—

And I feel nothing but alone.

I don’t deserve this—

to be treated in this manner

To endure some other eon of heartache

Against the grain of the world that I have become so accustomed to

And why? Why is my love never enough?

Why is everything always at odds?

as bairn destroying everything in carelessness

how I have come to fetishize and end to heartache

the word is tolerate—

like a weakness that I have felt exploited so many times before

I feel the language refract and reverberate

As if toleration is a fulcrum of my electric ire

Tolerance as bolts of lightning consuming some cathode

a nexus of my own disgust rendered in a crackling, illuminating plasma,

twitching off in all directions into darkness

setting fire to all that I hold sacred

as if I am retreating into myself

where the trees forget my name

overcome with regret

for all the effort I put into going nowhere.   



Saturday, April 8, 2017


like echoes

I remember

The twisted vindictive

my grandmother’s eyes

turning their minds

into sandcastles

the origins of savagery

some dreamscape

of long sweeping tides

 we are owls in trees

looking upon vastness

as I was taught

what is suffering?

In the ebb and flow

Of time

Eroding human weakness

Like some childish activity

As if awakening

Thursday, March 30, 2017

movements of self

In visions of charging wolves
And the fetishization of being eaten by them—
Beating wings press against an afternoon sun
And I am cutting people off in traffic

“they’re fucking idiots.”
No idea where they are.
Lost in the woods.
circuits and synapse
Dreaming of the jungles
Where these people are torn apart by wild animals

As man and machine fused into one
Patiently sitting, frozen in stupidity
They fade behind me
a collective and pointless memory

as a dream of some foreign entity
crawling across the sky
thunderbolts descending
into a silent, merciless wasteland
as some erupting proclamation

bring life to these empty places
ignite the fires of imagination
awaken them in these times
within concepts of credibility

in time and in rhythm
a rolling thunder in the distance
 as water begging to fall
as insatiable thirst

as if bloodlust for the kill
hunger for knowledge and spirit
running down some exhausted elk
like violent wreckage on the side of the road

in dreams they come
repetitively scrolling
between past and future
living the nightmare of prescience
rendered within innumerable teeth
the impossible jaws of time
gnawing away at every facet of being  

Monday, March 27, 2017


What course of events has brought me here

Into the depths of these woods

What vacuum of self has led me so far astray

Into the ancient and mystical places

Where my thoughts reach—

Within some more finite space

have I become such a being ?

How powerful have I truly become?

In the multitude theaters

In the liquid of being

In the depth of the forest

How have I grown so tall?

How have I become so alone?

the sky above and the soil below

I am the theater for which these things are made manifest

And yet, deep at its core, I am still searching

Diligently, endlessly

I don’t feel loneliness as I have in the past

Like some semblance of nostalgia

When I was younger; more primitive

And I see things now, clearly  

Woken and actualized

And I still feel the urge to fight—

Because it is my nature

And I feel the tension of everything

Weighing in

As I feel the universe breathe

And realize I am never truly alone

As tendrils of self are always elsewhere

My mind slips to the myriad dimensions

dreaming of some future aesthetic

As déjà vu

Familiar, and yet foreign

Close, and yet enigmatic

Intimate, and isolating

shall I wander forever?

becoming the dream of some design
holding within the concept of some greater nature


Thursday, March 23, 2017


I never really know where to begin.

The tense of regret for staring at a blank page eventually bothers me enough into action.

I am compelled for one reason or another

I am driven into it.

And so much of it is so obvious

So apparent—

The sound and the sensation

As gravity pulls in from all directions

As if we are but ripples

Superimposed upon the surface

of our own event horizon

how relevant are these instances

where chemicals release into cerebral-spinal fluid

imaginings of potential futures

within the distortions of space and time

as the berth of a ship

as viewed from underwater

what dreams await the futures

that have not yet come to pass

textured as if tissues

the layers of existence remain proportional

as dream of eons

only lasts until we wake

and in some quantum way—

I am collapsing the possibilities

Syllable by syllable

Into the future that has brought

the propensity of this moment.