Friday, July 10, 2015

In the Deep

I have been anesthetized by the deep,
like you, and here under a starless sky
I've found a home: a place absent of light
where I can sleep.  No doves rest on
the crest of solemn gates I seek to greet
with unquiet praise - instead the wretched
soulless wraiths have gathered round
with hauteur flavor: a fitting station
for those in limbo of His grace.

Cold as winter's breath are the hearts
of those behind these gates and their shivers
are enough to shake both world which men
consider to be night or day. But the words
He whispers still echo in this hallowed land—
so much, it's strange, the lending of a foreign hand.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015


Dreams rarely come at night.
Fight for them in waking hours,
burden comes during light.

So sudden the mind shifts its pose,
claiming all powers—
during night the mind forgoes.

An arm around her slips;
circles, swarms, and forlorn—
aches for pressure of hips.

They'll wait for midnight hours;
for the presence of her lips.

Friday, May 15, 2015

Empty Space

Lets travel around the Sun
and the Moon and the stars,
but is that really where
you want to be, when you
find yourself on Mars.

Don't look back--there's no
going back.  You've committed,
and you're on track. Where
are you though, is it really
where you wanted to go?

So now you feel lost amongst
the empty space, how fitting,
you're familiar with this place.
It's a shame you say,
what a wasted day.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Baptism - 09.15.2011

Here I was baptizing myself in the throes of others’ misery, wanting nothing but to remember how it felt when the pang of life was so full it overflowed up and out each orifice. To feel the presence of gravity on tears that, for once, seemed natural. To fight the uncontrollable convulsion of face muscles, and the lack of will to direct where my identity would find itself—alive, or flat faced, dying slowly, breathing its’ last fleeting gulp of air.

It startled me when after half a year of submerging my desire to search, I found her in a photo, a blue flowing dress taut around her now womanly figure. Her family members boasting large smiles while one by one placing their hands on her pregnant stomach to turn in pose for the camera.

I felt sick. My heart seemed to squeeze a little harder while I attempted to understand how I should feel about what I'd just seen. Nothing made sense—I buried myself in a book while the chatter of co-workers clamored in the background and I suddenly felt annoyed, angry—indifferent. Nothing mattered anymore—I felt lighter, as if a piece of me had just been carved out, or a burden lifted.

My actions were impulsive and my demeanor became less than gravitational. It was time to leave and I was glad for that—eleven hours of playing polite to people who could care less about my feelings was enough for one day.

Despite my hasty driving, the ride home was long. It started raining and the thoughts in my head were whirling about. The brake lights from cars I was passing started to blur together. I made it just one street from home, stopped at the stop-sign, and I felt that pang for once, wanting to escape—I let it.

Thursday, March 13, 2014


Picture credited to Shannon Freer

My spine is where I held myself together;
it kept my memories in its tendrils
to remind me where I'd been.  Identity—
they stole my memory.

Thursday, February 6, 2014


To who then do I owe this pleasure,
or this curse, to love a second
long after its first.  I must say
I have toed the line day after day

with no regard to a past ill spent,
but the past is present—I repent.
Now what then do I seek salvation from?
No god or man has talent enough

to make my deeds undone.
Nor even in a dying breath a lament
shouted towards the sun
would do sufficient harm or good

to make my deeds undone.
So I ask once more: why tread this path?
There is no reason for my treason
though to warily await each passing season.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013


I am senseless, like the seasons;
like the low hanging branches
snipped to provide nourishment
for the strong to survive.

What do we hope for when love
can be bought and history
stacked behind a barn to be burnt
in a Darwinian pyre?

Eagerly staring in to the white flame
I hope to find some semblance
of myself - but I am lost—food
scattered in the wind for Spring.