Despite Yourself


when lips cry not for what the soul needs most
we are gifted regardless

that which we don’t have the strength to know

untouched hope
pleading request

this man among men is most richly blessed


alabaster blue

it’s times like these I swear
the wolves howl harder for the
sun. as if they left the moon’s
call wholly undone. as if they
are screaming for a chance to form
themselves anew before their nature had begun.

if given the chance, what would the pack change?
the matted hair, the torn trail of the hunt must
count for something.

i cannot say where the forge
of our hearts rests, i’m doubtful
the maps we have sketched hold
even a clue. but what choice!

when giving your best
simply doesn’t carry clout,
when best means the world
to someone the world
cares nothing about.

one must strive to start anew.

when that beating vessel crosses
from red to alabaster blue,
set sights to soul’s horizon

and relentlessly pursue.

Exorcise my eyes, soak them in gasoline. Reinstate
to homeostasis then try and tell me how you’ve been.

Maybe then the iodine infused assurances will burn
up with my vision of you and we can both move on
knowing that allowing lies to permeate persistence
is the saddest thing anyone could ever do.

Look past the scar on my neck and the knife in my pocket. Push
through to you, me and the Great Questions we would always posit.

Maybe then we could hold our heads high and know its not
the end of the road; reconciliation has never been
the true escape. Alignment of the other with the self
seems only one half the scale.

Burning perspectives
Pushing connection
The lightning rod connections my brain makes when I spiral into that home only I know and keep reserved for the times the people I love the most seem so far away and the stranger that lives in my brain knocks on the front door and asks for a minute of my time///

This. And all of uncertainty’s aggression
leaves me still with one question.

Are you able to see me?

Should You Choose Love

love as the moon
steal not the night

unveil the details of the dark
give light to the small, long-suffering footprints
pushing so earnestly through the snow
grasping for direction
stilting for home

love as the moon
steal not the night
experience and attest the questions
that colonize your lover’s chest


The kid looks so comfortable and numb;
leaning on that crutch named routine.
Stockholm syndrome with himself, viewing social
mingling akin to bursting into smithereens.
Views the whole lot as Catholics’ do
evangelical bands; convinced each one separately
thinks they’re sketching with Michelangelo’s hands.
He has nothing to offer, he is ostensibly jaded;
touting lessons on a spectrum that has already faded.

Same kid, different emotional emergency;
this time looking back on a fugitive community.
Sentimental nostalgia threading the disguises he weaves,
we all masquerade abnormalities you wouldn’t believe.
No one can do right save those whom he can’t have
anymore, too busy missing what he missed to score
new loves to adore. So he tumbles round waiting for
a new pile of flaws and imperfections to ricochet
just right enough to leave an impression.

This kid, this cycle, braggadocios quest misperceived;
navigating an impregnable dark claiming ownership
over the light to lead. No different from the particles
held back by a sieve, his psyche withholds substance
and lets pass the naïve. Hence corrosion of the very being
he wished was perceived, he fails to see the heart of his actions
which acts as the cleave.

Closed as many doors as he’s opened he’s forgotten how to leave.
When he finds what he’s looking for, it will be smithereens.

Driftwood Dreamers

We were born explaining the wreckage.

Driftwood dreamers. Destinies
bloated, bloviated beyond
measure. Meaning minced
through thoughtless therapy,
painting pointless pictures.
Lifelines looped lackadaisically
around arid airways.
Cowards clawing crazily;
whipped-wild waves.

It is ironic that the salt pouring
from the mouths of us fallen castaways
is the only thing keeping buoyant
our swollen sense of self.

Better to let loose our ossified pulse;
and as the ship was, be engulfed.


I can hardly leave the room with your heart,
even at your request I just can’t start, no matter
what’s opposite on the scale the heaviest is apart

All the warmth in the world will try and
replace, the sun will grip at my eyes and pull
from your face, instincts make an overwhelming case

I wish I could latch onto that cascading droplet, drag
it up the rock face and lock it, rebind its molecules
so we could just drop it

and turn back to each other.

Then your marrow reaches out and touches mine
Transcending all notions of what is good and fine
Trading the disclaimers and the comfortable and the controlled
Pushing me towards moments reserved for the pioneers and the bold

The trees have thawed and made new their old wood
They’ve shed their bark and given up what they could
Forgotten highways are remembered for no reason
Save their presence once again guides to new season

never thinking of another.

The trust is what is carried, punctuated with
honey and sweet berries, voyages made and
attackers parried

For centuries this journey has been made, from protected
refuge to provision’s glade, to a new start in life
from the games played in Plato’s cave

Over the lines of stories once lived and never
told, I’ll journey out and back like the heroes
of old, never failing to return to your fold

Cut Scene

Whispers like missiles wind through snarled wires
Emanating from rooms in skulls with fearful conspirers
Trying desperately to rearrange some letters in prose
Designed to portray them in drastically distorted roles

I know I shouldn’t care, the source of flare non-credible
Though imagination projecting something rather dreadful
Heads on spears on embattlements with cauldrons pouring solvent
And steer-rearing armored knights who deny all involvement

Shamefully, however you lay it out its comic
Trying to impress people I can hardly stomach
In self psychosis state finding the genuine is rare
Though you’d like to think you’re cool enough not to even care

But the flesh is relentless and the spirit gets bemused
Unrecognizable, those two drag you to the wolves accused
And faced with reality gnashing, your fate a choice
Escape artist wriggles out the cuffs finding his voice

Awkward tableau with wolves, flesh and spirit, the lot
Trying to remember all the signature moves you forgot
From zero to a symphony of atoms buzzing cut scene
Time to reassess what the symbols under the cabinet mean

Tuesday Morning

The shadows of Rome loom long in her mind, as
long as the shadows from the city skyline tickling the
nape of her neck. The coffee shop door sticks more than usual
as she pushes inside; scents to scents. The same wool suit
and red tie hanging beneath tired eyes breath a kind dust
behind the counter. The coffee is not why she comes again and again,
though she couldn’t tell you why.

Sitting now, looking out the window into the coming dawn, she
wondered if the sun dangled from the string of a marionette puppeteer
who had become bored.

And there she felt a stir; within a safe within a room within
a house within a fence she heard a breath. As well as one can hear a breath
behind a safe behind a door behind a wall behind a fence. In
between the warm rays through glass and the scents separate from scents
and the kind dust she felt like she could hop the fence. Break the
window. Pick the lock. Crack the code.

Then someone bumped the puppeteer. The strings lost tension and she was
sucked out that door; the memory of its slight stick crying out to
be remembered as it was engulfed by the black hole of 7th avenue.

The Theoretical Construct of the Tragedy of Death

Bukowski told us
it’s possible to love a human
being if you don’t know them too well.
What a handicap
to place upon the brow of
our greatest gift. Love yourself and others the
same. Second, but
fiercer. In doing this within the
time we have been gifted leaves the end
empty. Void of
any real threat to the moments
woven within a song bravely sung. Only a
fool thinks death
erases all the gifts left to
give. The absence is always outweighed by a
life well lived.