A Poem in three Parts



All it takes is a mule in a lone field
to make you feel as if there is a part of life
you’re missing out on

Rustic roughness of dry hands
and forehead sweat under the western sun,
only found in Steinbeck novels and places red
It makes you feel as if what the walls said
when they were closing in on you (in the comfort of your own living room)
was completely fucked

What makes life         worth it?
What am I          worth?
I’ll promise myself to answer that
before I die. Or die trying. Or try
dying, and then find out

And of course I could make the words rhyme
And of course they don’t so I won’t
I’ll just pull and drag the shit out of it.
Until I make myself sick
With the idea

No moving back


Lungs full of smoke choked with cancer
the sweat of organs taken from home
and replaced inside make me want to
cry, from the evil genius of it
It’s just a puzzle put together
without pieces we can’t see

I’d like to try
being grateful of the mystery
for keeping things interesting
scrapping the overwhelming
of its presence

Light years of stars far away
twinkling with the inference of
foreign shores

painted, they remain there
a tangible imagination


and then some…

feeling life always passing by
in bewilderment of the real

you can’t find clues with your pupils
while it may have to do with
being(s) together

Yet I always wonder
will there come a time
when all answers
appear lucid?
toes tap dancing on a cloud

If only they had told us

when we were kids, I wonder
how many of us would still choose
to rise to the challenge
or see what’s behind door number two

She deserved a Poem.

Thin wrinkles frayed from her eyes like tangible expressions of a life
that had been lived.
Alone at a full table she sat
isolated from the existence around her.
Musing with her coffee cup, she pondered the Gray sky that revealed a thin blue layer in the distance.
Her heart seemed lost in the blank matter surrounding her,
the memories had begun to blur their names
and his face.
Tears not yet fully formed, gathered in the pockets beneath her pupils, balancing like a valley of trapeze artists they quivered unconsolably.
Shamelessly, she hid her face
to hide her sadness
behind her hands, and wept.

she wiped away the tears.
The sounds of meaningless conversations began to fill her
ears. She stood,
pushing the chair out with a screech behind her.
She grabbed her crinkly plastic shopping bag.
Threw away her cup
made of partially recyclable materials.

And left.



Color me translucent
Color me with joy
Un-fill this deep void
So I can fuck this Noise
In my Head
Through my ears

Impregnate myself with

Pragmatic transcendence
Of another sort….

Claws scratch at the surface
Of the mystery
An undefined search for purpose
through the misery of being
Cracking the shackles
those which I cannot perceive
finding signs in withering leaves
and the crags of crusted canyons
Delving deep into the uncharted sea
armed to the teeth
with belief in something much deeper
Setting aside emotions
I’ll cry tomorrow
for strength in muscle
is just borrowed matter
Lions lie at heart
So I continue beating
kicking in forced motions
measured by moments
the minutes of illusion
Knowledge has no time
so I continue to unwind the rope
of invisible fabric
Hoping to grasp closer to the center
Leaving less tugs for my predecessors
to pull apart.

And so I continue to sing.




Lost somewhere in hypnagogia

I awoke to find I was resting along a river bed

and the swelling in my head had gone away.

It was raining in slow motion as if the ocean

was full of helium, and I could see the stars

aligning along my fingertips like wisps of blue tipped diamonds.

A beauteous creature stood before me in silence

adorned with a golden nimbus.

I could feel its touch in a gaze

that grazed along my rustic skin like wintery silk.

Refulgent purple eyes sat behind silvery lines of feather.

The river beside me turned to ice and I slid across

As if lost in a boyhood adventure seeking injury,

the sage creature curled me up in its hurricane wings

and set me about in rhythm.

We danced in the hinterland night lights

And all my troubles floated past the rain

as I inhaled the music and breathed out the air

the rhythm of omniscient violins, pained

in warm breaths of sweet wind

and blew away all my fears.

Twirling like ancient nymphs entranced by effortless grace

The world became a piece of distant memory

and we floated up into the atmospheric space

soaking our toes along the borealis

eventually letting the dark matter engulf our entity


I awoke to the sound of faint violins.

No title

Organic vibrations

Rage throughout
Bones becoming skin
Skin                   bone,tongue,toes
body united in itself

Palpitating like wings
humming bird             word

It spoke

loud enough to hear the silence

Thoughts about violence

Or something to that effect


I woke

tangible dream life

A slight retention

to grow


It looked so ugly
she thought.

After having peered inside her own head

through the apparent hole where it had fed.

Running over to the mirror to get a better look,
She saw a reflection
of the thoughts about herself.

They looked so unfamiliar
and old
sitting there alone and unaccounted for,

and she soon realized
she didn’t know herself at all
like seeing spring heaped inside fall;
a chimerical vision.

Living in a world
of apocryphal reality,
she discovered the dissimulation
in her costume
and perfume,

in her neat hair
when she plays fair
and dances without rhythm.

Infected by the duress of society
like cancer erupting in tumors
her thoughts were blind to the axiom
of self.

She wanted to scream help
but it was an emotion that felt
Artless, and unfamiliar.

She closed up her mouth
clenching her teeth
locking her jaw
abiding false laws,

pertinacious in confinement.



: Legs.

My Grandfather told me a story once.

About a man from brooklyn,

He had no legs.

Moving around from place to place

On a plank of wood, with wheels on the bottom

He would push forward, knuckles against the concrete

begging for money.

My Grandfather would give him a place to sleep

and some food

” We would throw him in the sink
and clean him up every now and then”

” Did he ever thank you?”

He spoke to no one.


He is remembered as

Just a story I heard once.



It was a shit-load of poop
That poured out all over Mullhoney St.

And they all came out to see it
Mothers with their cooking mits
Daughter with their pig tails
Brothers with their boyish charm
And Fathers with their Sunday newspapers

The white of the fences was tarnished
In splotches
the flowers now only smelled like
the manure above and below them

festering in disgusting loads of itself
making those around cringe from
the horrid display

They stood in disbelief
moaning screaming crying

stuck on repeat:” why us?”

“why our street?”

All of them fully aware the no human being
could have accomplished such a feat

Cutting through the noise of despair
an outcast spoke

” Are you all blind?”

They stood there, glaring in anger
only understanding past experience
too limited to look beyond their own

“This is a Miracle that proves God’s existence!”
he spoke proudly

and they all had the same thought
programmed into their head.
one of them translated it into sounds
“But this isn’t mentioned in the Bible?”


Soon I’ll be dead
with a face of red flowers
and all will be calm
time counting the hours

The Outcrying world
filled oceans in tears
forgotten its namesake
carousing with fear

crept into battle
trapped in life war
gave left eye for one
so one collects four

Turned on its head
it carries like weight
sleeping in waking
a genetical trait

wavelengths ring crimson
infectious with pulse
smoothing over the rips
love-creatures grow close

glimmers of wisdom
clutch out at the seams
kissed by imagination
manifested with dreams

Rise within sunlight
manufacture to pull
be as a walrus
make eden half full

Words can survive
through a face of red flowers
the truth can be heard
and the words could be ours