Look at the lethargy of the ethereal plane,
its shriveling like the rest of it, that forgetfulness,
everything truly only happening once, the wrinkle
free fabric of existence, does a tree morn
its leaves in the sullen inaction of winter
as the mother leopard grieves upon leaving
the injured cub in the underbrush? What
is intellectualism in a world of pure circumstance?
As we succumb to the notion that we, somehow know
better. The beauty lies not in our understanding
but our acceptance


The Kingdom of Light

And so it seems that’s
just us, there in the shadows,
there on the billboards,
in your pockets, on
your screens, the credit,

your front pages, back
burners, in your playlist’s
programming and hearts,
and there we shall remain.
For love is not found

in a book or a blog, or
a pornographic romantic comedy,
and most certainly not in bedrooms.
It is the pulsing and the
however personal motivation

of reality,
so exuberant and fulfilling
we had to cover our
eyes at the simple thought


Oh, Right

Heavy, man.

But why? It’s the season of
love and joy and peace on…


Small World or Just In Time (For Mating Season)


During the dry season, the native species
tend to be much more frenetic, jostling
in their tight space, tired from breathing
dust, drinking muck, and eating food
that’s all the same color. Conflicts
become more frequent, and more deadly.
When the rains finally return, more than
half the total population will be gone.



If it were easy, everyone would do it.
Anyone can. Truly. Craft of patience,
like math. Well, then what are you good for?

Poetry is not about understanding.
Language cannot be understood anymore
than time, or gravity, or your spouse and teenaged kids.

Poetry is the spiritual triad of intention
combining with action resulting in responsibility.
Terrified of being held accountable for this

situation I’ve caused. Still, people drive with
out insurance. They jump out of aeroplanes
They eat at MacDonnel’s thrice a week, and

they vote every couple years.



Sometimes I feel like I’m wading
through some mucky bayou,
where little red faced demons, with curly
black mustaches sit safely in the tops of
tall grasses, and strum on banjos, and
string on fiddles sweet ditties about
the red eyed devil with sharp teeth
lurking, hungry, somewhere below the surface.


Balcony Back Then

Looking out of the second floor
balcony, over the courtyard, boxed in by
the 3 other buildings of Ashley’s
apartment complex, complete. It’s trees like
the 5 side of a die, and 4 rows of bushes
along the long sides of the field that
remind me of a mirrored violin body.
The queen fountain in the center
with the cement walkway that runs long ways
through the equator. In the snow, some
one left their path diagonal through it,
fossilized by the midday sun turning into the
dry, frigid night. I stand, underdressed for the
weather, not being able to tell the difference
between the smoke from my light cigarette
and the polluted air in my lungs.


Easy Hair Removal Infomercial: “You’re not an idiot, honey. You married me!”

The cost of freedom is eternal vigilance?
How complacent have we become?

Do we really think freedom is strictly
That if we’re not being threatened
with death, our freedom isn’t in

That’s what it looks like from here.
If we don’t conform to all the signs
they’ve posted, they threaten our freedom.

Our illusion of freedom.
Used to call it independence.

As well tempered, moderate
individuals, if not accepting,
silent in our objective reality,
we won’t be troubled. Hurrah.

“In France, we have riots, but not when we win.”
That’s all we do in america. Win. We’re the world champs
of all the sports we play. Except soccer. The world doesn’t get it.



These smokes leave me deoxidated.
The coffee dries my out, with tears
still to be shed. Deep breathes. Deep

breathes. We’re all staring at the tree
from one place or another, depending
on what you believe. Breathe deeply.

See the air moving the leaves. Feel
the light they feed on in sweltering
summer. Feel the heat they breathe.

Amazed they can stand for so many
decades. Myself already sitting down,
watching the world through glass

doors. Always faintly seeing myself
in the scene, slightly translucent, completely


Energy (Now Tell Me We’re Not Just)

Yes, I noticed that all of a sudden it was 3 AM.
So I stepped outside to have a smoke and ponder
the next stage of my drawing. Having closed the
front door, and lighted my cigarette, taking that
first drag, I felt an intense compulsion to explain
myself. “Working,” I said out loud to my self
consciousness. “We’re getting things done.
Nothing to do tomorrow, let’s get it done now.
3 AM, working hard. That’s just how we get it
done.” I was convinced, after half a smoke,
turning to our poorly curtained window, but
there she was, walking back up the stairs.



Water running down wax paper walls, light
dancing in the creases, emitting from one corner
of the room, ambiguous sound moving amongst
the units. It’s a time of true feeling, whichever
it may be. The candle leans slightly, no one feels
the smoke in the room. No one runs, as if the story
gives way to climatic thrill. Children watching
their parent’s lives silhouetted by the thin divide,
thinking it only works in one direction. Beams
of timber begin to falter from the heat of watchful
eyes. Outside the city, pine needles wipe amber
tears from age hardened faces, wrinkled bark.
The travesty the fox commits against the field
mouse is witnessed by the owl, and goes
unpunished, leaving an unfathered family
to fend for itself. Grief for the hairless litter
doesn’t last long. Ash moves in the wind. Structure
falls, despite frantic attempts at dousing the blaze.



Maybe future me knew,
he said
through time,
Record the ideal instants

if only for evidence,
as not to forget it,
so that now me can relate,
who knows where I’d be
if he hadn’t.

as relative as time and space.
Space and time all relative to
the here and now,
and we’re all certain of that