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.”

Beg Your Pardon

I’ll use you as a thermometer
When my temperature rises I know it is better to stay in

I’ll use you as a periscope
A look up into the existence that awaits me if my conscience was buoyant

I’ll use you as a neon sign
Affirmation as obvious as the subtext my mind paints over flashing rusted green

I’ll use you as a lamp shade
Present in every memory even to just sit in the corner collecting dust

I’ll use you as a point of reference
To ground myself in something other than my heart’s fumes

The sense we talk ourselves into and the sense that chases us out.

I’ll use you as a reminder of all the lessons spent teaching myself how discardable promises are


Gaseous drifting ball origin.

Cast out
Meant to illuminate
Traveling miles
Dodging whole planets
Not to be deterred.

Primary target?
Your eyes, your squint
The most awkward of trophies
But proof none-the-less
Of a small moment
So intimate the innumarable
Atoms and photons in the universe
Will all exist in some other reality
Unable to ever experience the

And though the nerves in your head
Have the knee jerk reaction to repel the
Flurry of glowing suitors, to launch
Them back out to the world, somewhere
Deep below the root of your brain
You feel an appreciation of your
Being no one else ever thought to say.

Ocular love story; that small
Burst of light awkwardly courting
Your trebuchet eyes.

Black Denizen

Scorched earth blot
remains of an uncoupled creature
pulled from the patchwork left to rot

Nothing but the sinew and the bone
off the back porch of a brain
where the weeds started to grow

Twisted child of stars and red-black pits
casualty of an ungovernable civil war
wormed eye holes and insubordinate atoms

Overturned epitaph making science a mockery
what ungodly vex
all signs correlate with sorcery

Unwitnessed agonized crawl
second first breath to second demise
what impact this existence if any at all?

Black denizen decomposing into vitamins
corrosion evoking emotion seeping into mind’s dirt
undiagnosed urgency of the threat of lifelessness

Missing You (Reprise)

Arrow notch and furl
After all she’s just a girl
Slipping on ice

The only way to grip is to destroy the sheen

Arrow loose and fold
After all I’m not that bold
Choosing distance over the mire

I told myself I’d kiss you but I didn’t

And I’m trying to undress you
Of all the clothes I’ve put you in
I’m trying to see you clearly
Not as just another again

Broken record actions chained
To tides insubordinate to the moon
This pattern’s drained

Though I think your laughter holds the key
To breaking every idea I have of me
And of you and of what the word
Together means

No longer do I look for solace among the weeds

I think your laughter holds the key
Listen to that statement as if I’m speaking
Outside of you from outside of me

It’s unbridled pitches suggest a beauty
It’s dialogue with your presence suggests
An origin from without either of us

An origin that puts to shame all constructs

For the first time now I think I’m missing
Something beyond the corners of my lust

The Whaler

The strands falling over your face
Help me keep pace
I brush away doubt as I do your hair

Locked lips rendering all else dust
Your eyes are orbs absorbing my trust
You close my fingers around an orchid blue

We both know the reason our eyes
Are seas overflowing beneath uncertain skies
Understanding’s weight is more than our skulls can take

You watch from the docks as my heart starts quaking
The surroundings fall away as a kaleidoscope breaking
Colorful swirls of existence splinter around your outstretched hand

Months later I gaze up the ship’s mast
I imagine the great tree it once was before it’s final die was cast
Peculiar thoughts of journeys and fate drift over the water

Later still, as the ship’s hull bursts upon the storming sea
I clutch the flower that you had entrusted to me
Knowing my choice no less a mistake than the day I first took your waist

Though this fact threatens to break my will
I trust the orchids to bloom blue still
Beauty was never ours to determine, simply ours to partake

Rose Bushes

I hear she’s running out again.

And I know you thought I said you shouldn’t give up
But you didn’t listen close enough

I told you not to give in.

I hear she’s running love again.

Realize you’re captive to an unwilling master
Allowing a blind author to write
your masterpiece

Finite fingers fumbling infinite reigns.

But I understand.
You wanted to live.
That’s what you came for.

Once, twice, and again

But think back.
It has only ever killed you.
That’s all you came for.

Once, twice

And every desperate time.

Re: You Can’t Love In Reverse

In the assembly line of my mind
the workers have somehow managed
a coup. With eyes of mutiny they
select only the finest of memories
as their reflexive fingertips graze
the jumble of dids and didn’ts running
past them amidst the hum of my churning
synapses. As I watch this rebellion unfurl,
and the number of fond moments brought
back to my attention grows, I run amidst
the factory floor, scrambling and screaming
at them. “Remember that we are building for
the future! These old parts, however nice, are
outdated and the danger of exposing them to
consumers is too high!” My words echo about
as I stand in front of a younger one, the
scent of lavender I ripped from her hands
rolls on the floor between us. The
other workers turn to me, hands gripping
old sunrises, their eyes of mutiny suddenly
shedding tears. They can’t comprehend the
potential loss of life, the lawsuits
that would come flooding in if we
shipped out these old parts. They only know
the shape of smiles and the sound of laughter.
They only know what I didn’t back then; that
some things are worth grabbing onto and pulling
out of the rubble. I stand among them, no
longer angry. Simply pondering how to best word
my next company wide email.


An irrevocable loss.

It has me begging the walls in the
room I retreated to: why?
A why too big to fit in my head.
I could release the pressure with words,
utterances of soft memories,
though I can’t manage a sound lest
I burst into tears. So it is left to
push and push and imprint and
graft itself onto the inside of my skull.


I do not mean:
The loss of life so young; (but why?)
The randomness of pain so suddenly sprung; (but why?)
The inequity of reason in the face of what words deem a tragedy but embraces and uncontrolled quivers know to be so much more.

I’ve a learned peace regarding the mystery of God’s symphony and His unknowable score.

I do mean:
Our scrambling to keep sentiments stifled;
How easy it is to soak in the spiteful;
The inequity of our presence in the face of what our accounts would deem real relationship but anxiety and uncontrolled longing know to be so much less.

Why does it take death for our true feelings to be confessed?

He was known. He was loved.
He knows all this to be true now that he is apart, above.
It is my hope he will also see all that his absence has taught me:

To never look back on another life near mine with regret.

All I give is what I will get:
I realize now existence is a waste if you cannot see the sweat
Framing your spiritual brow from all the effort put forth in debt
To all of those you deem to love. Indifference is an insidious threat.

The sky we once shared is now more clear;
A sky to which your perspective is now drowned
As you pass from air-dependence to other-waters pioneer.
My heart, while breaking in this crater, has now been found.