poetry

i’d write of trees but today (despite their beauty) i’m more intrigued by humanity and how we live with all it’s curious flaws

poetry

yesterday a girl attempted to jump from the 7th floor
to make her fiance eternally regretful of his decision
to cheat shortly before their wedding

and i found my daily time of considering death
has not yet prepared me to stare it in the face

and i found my life experience
has not yet prepared me to sit on the cold floor
next to this crying woman and try to understand

The Conception of You in Relation to My Fantasies

poetry

It’s nothing I have haven’t experienced before
And yet, that’s what makes the possibility all the more enthralling.
It’s no longer about the act or the finished product.
Hardly at all. In fact, that might very well ruin everything!
Well, almost.
But truth be told, it’s the enticement of opportunity,
The mere perception of the act that I revel.
Some call it the journey,
Some call it foreplay.
I’m not sure which of the two I agree with more.
It’s the mystery which piques my every sense,
It’s the unknown that I chase after with gratuitous diligence.
It’s the almost that I crave with ravenous appetite.
And there you have been, unknowing but tempting at every turn;
A leg, a sigh, a smile, and yes, cleavage.
Yet with exploitation or exposure is there victory?
Contrary, it becomes the inevitable demise.
Behind the shroud, the lust.
Beyond the shroud, it’s all the same.
We’re all the same.

let’s drive north

poetry

and leave this all behind,
saying farewell to our lives,
dropping the imperatively meaningless tasks,
walking out on our fucking jobs,
jumping onto 25
to see where it will take us,
leaving texas behind (good riddance),
passing through new mexico
only to linger in colorado
before tackling wyoming,
montana,
continuing on with no directions,
with no definitions,
with no plans,
except to find canada’s cool embrace
before our lives find us
and drag us back
to the heat of our lives.

gone too long

poetry

run me down to
the shore

grab my hand and
pull me to
the rocky beach

through the thick mist
peppered with salt and
pine and sea

through the deepening
shadows of the streets and
by the electrified home windows
that echo back
our bright laughs

we stop short of
the water, and molecules
collect in our hair –
in the needles of the trees

we share a glance
a squeeze
a heartbeat
and the sun has set

driving through shitty towns drunk

poetry

inside you is a tension
from the building up of steam
and you won’t just let go of it
for that would be obscene
you pretend that you are limber
so to all it can be seen
yet you are just a child, dear
just-a waiting to be free’d
so come and take a ride with me
away from your sick dream
i’ll teach you how to lift the world
and put it down, where you please
see the colors of the void
and then, too, of the leaves
think about the higher things
and sit up in the trees
let all of our love out
and let it flow
in-between.

Little White Rocks

poetry

all the
little white rocks under
my feet
sting as they stab
in to the skin with their
sharp edges and corners
and I walk funny
trying to pretend that I
don’t feel it

But you can still see me
walking funny
with the slight lean
and the slow roll
heel-to-toe
stepping so
gingerly,
carefully,

The only aim
to get off of these
little white rocks
as soon as possible
not because it hurts
but so you won’t
see me
walk funny

The way you sleep

poetry

As still as a broken toy
But wired like a landmine
Waiting for something
I just haven’t quite
Figured out yet.
Every night across the
Silk-screen canvas of your brain;
A dazzling watercolour
Of ferocious intensity.
Ten long years of painting
Where all the colours
Smile and wink,
Dance to Moby,
And kiss each other
Hard on the mouth
Like Mulholland Drive paramedics.