What was it?

The fleeting foretaste that

sent passion spiraling,

like the drunken flight of a day moth,

into the depths of this layered



This kind of chaos is a self, sustaining

refuge in the unseen-

the untouchable fist

folded into itself.

Wings drawn to candles burning-

Is this resilience or resistance

or both?


This is what we do now.

The running-

an innate stumbling

toward the same archaic thing-

or are we being chased?

Entering another space to grow.


How can I say it’s about time?

When skin breaks at impact +

the fleshy pink exposes itself to

the idea of what happened first,

now, a scab/blister/scar forming. 


A bird lands on a tall tail of grass

and is slowly lowered to the ground.

Is this time or gravity?

Falling or being pulled?

And is this what we write about?

Why we claw at each other at daybreak

when the Sun splits our shadows,

beckoning our return.


Isn’t it in the morning Light

where stars meet their darkness?

Are we not governed by a sky

that is fed by its own reflections?


The noose around your neck is a safety hazard.

Marguarita Duras once said, “To write is also not to speak. It is to keep silent. It is to howl noiselessly.”



For what it’s worth, you’ve always been there.

Fumbling around in the back pocket of the monotonous,

Stretching across the evenings that carry on in that way I like,

The way that is so difficult to explain-

Too delicate to talk about.

Not that it would break,

Just that I might slip through it.

So there is silence.

The quiet exposure of moment

Requiring a certain vulnerability,

Or just a certain way of thinking about


To say an idea of a thing

Can sponge up more than

The thing itself-

Can configure the floor scene

In which we are dancing..


Oh my oh me oh this dream,


Have I beat this rug enough?

Is the cradle beneath my feet full with dust?

The grime has no place to go.

That is why is gets stuck to our shoes,

Unnoticed as we go along

Until the moment it reaches lips,

Calcifies tongue,

Cheeks swollen and words numb-

The bell alerts us only after our senses

Are granted as offering-

This is not the end.

We can talk phoenix, moth, stick bug-

How the cat hair caked to the corner carpet

is a home for some antennae’d shell of light

and how every bodied thing can and will be squashed.

It is not the act that taunts us-

Not the inevitable effacing that we spend our lives preparing,

But knowing the veil has lifted;

The disposition in which you kept during those nights

And how you stayed so quiet in the mornings,

As if you wanted me to hear nothing but your breath..

And as I pass these reflective windows,

The image of life meeting the warped glass of their longing,

I am unapologetic in the depths in which I’ve been crawling.

This angle catches the light breaking,

capturing the weightlessness of becoming.

As above, so below

moon & waves web

Words are wet towels

soaked in sink water.

ring them out for our morning bath

into the mason jars

that shutter these windows

and call each drop out by it’s name

before it’s lost in the spine of

this rambling-

the same voice taunting

old doubt,

you’ll never be     never be-

but I saw the moon tonight

for the first time,

briefly   and

it did not fill me.

consistent among the void,

the reoccurring reminder that

I am season- cycle- flux-

my skin absorbing light as

sand sucks down the tide.

out she goes

making claims again;

crawling back into the envy

of cattail leaves

losing shape in the marsh wind,

then exploding.

pieces of what we see are to be

lost and gained.

don’t let this destroy you.

these things will slip from

our lives like windows shattering

and the hallways will sound like

street lamps humming.

just keep walking,

down the corridors of your feeble mind

and know-

there is only one thing we can do here

and what we do we will become.


Igniting passion from old desires

singes the shirt sleeves of the ‘what could be’s’

and melts the longing into shadows-

gnawing at the seams of ‘alone’-

Is this despair or the temptation of being?

The settled-in static of excused illusion,

the refrigerator humming in the common room.

The contemplation of nothing left to do

And the yellow wood that taunts me.

What more can be said on the matter

Besides the if-ands of the daily trudge?

The wandering footsteps planted

along this lackluster path

and the resilient response of

something more to be.

Lovers have secrets they keep

oeo (3)

moments cut from the everyday-

a secret scaffolding for

you & me & the simple

isolated longing-

existing is the

nothing between the sedge grass

and the sun light that

bleeds wildly through neon sheets—

like tents above our bodies—

and dances across

our skin in waves of

incalculable frequencies.

It is this vulnerability,

layed out and unfolding—

a quiet exposing of

the frothy skin-veil of morning,

a new act of measuring—

that stirs this sewing sleep, reminding

us that we are not wasted

but resolved by time’s humming,

the perpetual titillation

of the unseen.


Walking with her

is a lot like waking

up from a dream-

reality shaken and serene,

whatever holds a moment

starts rushing past and I’m

hardly afraid of the

dizziness approaching

only aware,


as she reaches behind her back

for the sleeve of her jacket

right before the movie

empties itself on top of

the things we’ve both been missing-

of how surreal it all is,

here inside this lovers fit;

how familiar this lighting seems

and how tragic I am as it fades.

You can’t muzzle a maverick

There was never any situation outside of virtue. There was always something to be done. A soul to save. A bridge to put out. A city to burn. We walked together as pilgrims in the night, searching for torches in the streets. We created our own form of existence, gave life to our childish imaginations of what it might be like to be something beyond green.

This world exists forever inside of lonesome smells. Inside of silent moments spent in our own minds. There is never a love left behind, only a slow burning to dismiss and turn from. Never destroyed, just left to the dark.

She peeled back her truth slowly. Shedding one piece of clothing each time she arrived

back home to see her mother. She had grown unaccustomed to hiding and would forget to cover her

stained skin, unintentionally revealing remnants of something that would take some getting

used to on both ends.

Her voice was unpardonably tactful, yet never without gist or the seed of jest. The world she witnessed as a child sculpted a woman who craved to be heard yet instructed her to live in shadows and abide by the blanket of conditional love. Her childhood was never far from ordinary and her complacency with it was always quite fascinating. A goofy little pig-tailed Cinderella who danced in order to be seen, clicking her heels in the lime light, then crying. Awkwardness radiated through years of growing, a smile too big for her face, always standing out from all the rest, a persistence in her eyes that was often times overwhelming. Once a girl who strove for acceptance, the seeker of the warm light of laughter, now a woman pinned to perfection, clinging to grace, persuaded by the lips of a forbidden lover: there is more.

Her foolishness was thrilling, often amusing to those who had lived beyond restriction, to those who thought they knew something other than their own paralyzing flaws. Vulnerable and sore, she leapt into a realm which was welcoming to such purity and courage as a mob of hyenas would welcome the hot blood of something brave- entrancing her with pheromones and trick glances before bludgeoning her neck with carnivorous teeth. They took their time in pleasure, devouring what was left of her oscillating chest; fouling the saccharine fluids of her innocent veins with noxious spit.

Once delivered from seduction, there grew a noticeable change in her gait; something passed a limp, reaching toward a subtle, yet conscious sauntering. Most everything else stayed the same. Her fingers wrapped around the leather steering wheel with the same tenacity. The same blank stare while driving, hiding the cosmic check list in her mind. Routine of headband and over-sized sunglasses still paired themselves with colorful shorts and mismatched flip flops. The mess in her room exuded the same stench of must and hairspray and cheap perfume. The same bottle of vodka iced over in the ceiling of the fridge. Daily presence never flinched- a youthful bunch of familiar faces, sharing the same gossip with different ghosts. She carried herself through days with unnerving certainty. Her face and shoulders strapped with the grace and determination of presentation, waiting to collapse long after the brunt of the moment passed.

She would lie with me somewhere outside of this trembling. We would awake suddenly from some strangling dream, both of us gasping for air and clinging to pink sheets. Unaware of how we got there, but relieved as hell that we had. Unbeknownst to us, a sanctuary had been slowly sculpted out of all our falls. A room built up from the soil of our wicked mistakes. A home for new feet. A mold broken and reshaped. A breast in which our lips gratefully suckled their first brew of what it meant to be seen.