Euphorically Episodic

Notions float undiscovered in the seas of this life;
Ideas and experiences that could capsize any vessel
So sure of its construction.

How strange a blessing, the fickle fragility of purpose.

We took brushes to each other in the back woods,
Dusting in search of traces worth note;
Fingerprints often cause concern rather than the thanks they deserve.

How honest a posture, beauty moving on its own accord.

I want to take the very notion of momentum and turn it inside out.
There is no grand finale or sniveling ending to this life,
Only the ever beautiful, and the choice to partake.

Crescendo’s and climaxes go hand in hand;
Because we force them.

Moments lead to bigger moments;
Because we expect them.

Sights meant to be serenaded;
Stuffed and shared.

Hands were meant to hold, not clutch and release.

And I could write about your hands for ages.

But for every eternity I spend with you,
I cut my thanks short.

I hope you understand.

I wouldn’t want to miss another.


Redirect (Mesh Echoes)

This is the last time
Was all that left your lips
As the grandiose grenade of
New beginnings was pulled
From your belt

Your fingerprints left on the pin
Though the explosion will surely
Destroy all the evidence

But no one could have known
That time would suspend right
After the device did implode

Cataclysm encapsulated
It seems I should have waited
But no one could have known

Decisions regressed
Time compressed
Burning sphere’s threat suddenly undressed

All that time to suspend
All that time to mend
All that time to dance around the
flame’s licking tongues turned orange
flower pedals, death somehow exchanged
for a blooming sunset unfurling in a
winter’s globe

All that time to reframe
All that time to contain
All that time to leave behind the
kaleidoscope red as it falls just
out of harms way, soft as burnt
paper floating amongst exasperated
escape plans

The glowing orb hanging, suspended
over the ground and our disbelief the same.
I imagine it has felt so long because
the power to stop such a detonation
is one that has been ingrained within
the marrow of existence deeper than we think

Our bones have long been strengthened for this moment
Only now has choice brought us to the brink

And when the explosion chooses to pause
In the face of all the doubt and of all the fear;
Echoing among the fiery frozen tendrils
The choice rings astoundingly clear.

The Breeze Will Stop To Listen

We are far worse than we ever dared to believe; each filled to the brim with corruption and hypocrisy, especially on stages we construct and call divine.

We are loved more than we ever dared to believe; pause to look out the window and past your eyes, pause at the branch of the tree delicately kissing the sky.

What is so similar a portrait to our soul yet nothing alike? What possesses beauty more transcendent than the reaches of our pride?

While I search for the answer, for an analogy so complete as to map out the
constellations of our cells, there remains a grounded fact upon which I dwell:

I don’t have room.

There is an inverse relationship to the amount of love I carry for my neighbor, and the amount of love I carry for the whole world wide.

I find myself unable to maneuver the intimate hallways of my life without shutting out humanity and all its strife.

I find myself unable to call upon ideals transcendent without giving up the patience and care upon which my intimate relationships are dependent.

There is an other to this puzzle. There is a solution without. There is a bridge between my fertile comprehension and my permeating doubt.

I suppose this is why the notion of faith makes me want for nothing except to step outside. To listen to what dialogue I can between the branches and the sky.

I Thought About The Rust

The steady reach and turn

Wondering why I continue to toil
Wondering if I will ever learn

I say nothing, because this is all more than me
I run images through my head of words that never existed
Words I harness perfectly, ideas so beautiful as I spin them
In my hands

Through these listless mists I see your eyes overflow with understanding

But I say nothing some more.

The steady march and stack

Wondering if it is all worth it
Wondering when I will look back

I say nothing, because the words would cauterize the ground
The walls bulge as they absorb every notion not put
Into motion, postures lost to me and to us
At least for now.

I say nothing, and it brings me an answer
A resolution to my imperfect pursuit of perfection
As I silently try to align my direction

I know I will lose hope.

And when that time comes
As sure as the first life of spring
My wish is for us to persevere

Because if these walls could talk
If they could expel all I’ve let lost

I still couldn’t get past your soul.


I hadn’t had the greatest of days
which made it especially refreshing
(for better or for worse)
to hear such kind words spoken
about a me I had forgotten from
a time who’s fruit I had let spoil.

I fight hard to keep from
not validating someone else’s
perspective due to some secret
held deep within my heart which
scratches inadequacy on the inside
of my valves while foreign blurry
pupils convey the most clear thanks.

I fight hard to keep my ambition
from turning into regret as
the fire of my hopes and the
fire of my failures are both
fueled by the same coal of
my past actions chalky and black.

I hadn’t had the greatest of days
which made it especially refreshing
(for better or for worse)
to feel the growth and freedom
abounding in my bones despite
their recent melancholy tune.


I’m scared of what you’ll leave if you stay
Everyone has something to give
I’m scared that you are about to give yours away

Maybe it doesn’t matter what they say

Words will happen undoubtedly
Debates over running’s identity
Courageous or cowardly

The funny thing about layers is you can always peel another off

But I find it all tiresome
The dialogue does well
To camouflage the growing

You leave enough in your pockets
And you find yourself start to change

Solutions and distractions

I can find the things that I have left behind tonight
If I try.

Crucify Him

I don’t sleep much anymore
I find myself starting in the dark
My bed and four walls ridicule me
In their inanimate ways
Faint wood worn cries resonate in
This space so saturated with my doubt
“Crucify him, crucify him, send him to his death!”
Insentient echoes fade in and out of
Memory and insomnia the same

I look back on that day
I remember the hoarseness of my shout
My voice woven in with all the others
Carried so much clout

We held the law
This man was trying to overthrow
We were the authority
Though now I fear it was all for show

I remember how I stood there
Watching this man condemned
Though he looked less a criminal
And more a downtrodden friend
Though that thought was stifled out
By the rising fever in the crowd

There was no way of knowing
Whether he was the Son of God

Though we knew
Before he came before us which path
He would take
The choice was easy

A stranger over our pride we would forsake

Reflecting back through time and space
I hear our accusations and see his peaceful face
Yet through the cries and through the jeers
I wade through façade and face my fears
I enter the room deep beneath my heart
Where I’ve housed my truest feelings from the start

And in this room where my essence dwells
I find a note scratched in the wall
Fatigued and honest is its scrawl
Its hand I recognize as my own
Desperate to its master disown

I’m suddenly drawn back out from this room
By the kinetic actions in the court
Less a fair trial and more human
Cruelty turned to sport

I see myself in memory crying out
“Crucify him, crucify him,
Send him to his death!”
My spit flying through the court
Hatred and laughter on my breath.
And while I see myself
Exhaling these accusing tones
I delve back to read that message
Etched deep beneath my bones

Each word falls off the wall in agonizing clarity

“This man is truly who he says
His grace is without bound
Tear down your walls
Oh lost child now found.”

Barreling back I come to the present, my
Bedroom turned cell. The walls closing
In again, my past actions my hell.
Those who I treaded over as they wept,
The acorn of faith aside I swept,
As I realize the extent of my fall, the depths!
And it’s through the panic and sweat
Of another sleepless night in regret
That I grab hold of my only solace:
The rock of a promise kept.

I stood smiling as I sent Jesus to the cross
Now I’ve no choice but to somehow accept
The forgiveness offered me by his loss.


Tell me who is richer
The man with ten thousand
Possessions who can’t
Fathom tranquility, searching
To bolster his collection,
Disregarding ability actualized
In desires minimized, searching
For nothing more than a hollow path to cope.
Bastardizing hope, twisted scope.

Or the man without. Within. Inverting wisdom,
Preserving what has never been done,
Acting as one, loving through all,
Acknowledging and acting upon the rift
Separating sunrises and pay raises. Praises,
Spaces and innocuous faces
All pass around him without effect
Except to inspire fire fueling
Footsteps filled with simple solidarity.

An acuity exists.
An effort persists.

The whispering road paved with stars to the rich.

Choreography of a Flower

The flowers I planted for you have bloomed into arresting patterns foreign, filling familiar trenches I thought I left behind years ago.

Framework abandoned to save a vessel that itself was the toxic turncoat, change change change the context when the pain presses.

Scenes bulimic spewing up their insides in my mind revealing and reviling the digested lessons, under cooked slabs selected so ceremoniously in retrospect.

I fought for you within, fighting to turn my heart inside out to reveal the parts of you I knew to dwell deep in my blood’s marrow.

Imperfect judge and perfect justifications, the you shining through my pores marred with my own biased ink.

Writing in the parts I want, my own perspective all I have to process makes those of variety vile feel routine.

I wonder why I wander this wasteland, the bodies of my warped creations peppering the landscape and my hand dug mass graves.

Which brings us back to the trenches.

Dig to cover, dig to hide. Entrench within earth divots then cross the divide. I don’t like what I’ve made of you, of it, of the things I’ve allowed to die.

Every time I unearth the buried I wretch, recoil. When weeping follows the reaping we fly to new soil, new beginnings in which our perfect gods can toil.

For us. For me. For the collective good of we.

I’m not sure what caused me to pause this time around, to pause over past graves and lower my seed bearing hand beneath the ground. Maybe it was grief, maybe it was me finally listening to that faint windswept sound.

The sound of my own iniquity, the sound of my choices poor. The sound of love softly knocking on the door.

Whatever it is I know I lack the words to describe; how does one account for the soft touch of the fragility opposite one’s pride?

One cannot. Though one can learn. One can let experiences bloom and on their own time to earth return.

So quietly I will gaze upon the pedals velvet and curved. Quietly I will listen to the muted rustling as moments stir.

Quietly I will steward what patches of creation I haven’t already spurned.


My eyes have grown old
Not with age or the cold
But with my experience’s mold

Faded over and grey
I’ve only ever known one way
To wake up and face the day

The same neurons have always fired
Definitions long since expired
A fresh perspective must be acquired

Through mist in my sight I see something new
Figure approaching, eyes more crystal than blue
I implore with what sincerity I feel I once knew

“Teach me of what the word beautiful means. To you.”