Oct 052017

convincing, forgetful, like a soup.


the elegant demeanor of the twilight.


forged in sunrise.  all together now.


an answer, incorrect.


corrected, wait.  no.


feet.  planted.  look at me.


eyes.  behold.  the truth.

Sep 262017

cast off, drifting out.


towards the sun, prose to solace.


so near and dear.

renewal.  the grass.

of course, the clouds.  the rain, of course.

false freedom, lost in righteousness.

of course.

renewal.  soil to mud, dry to dirt.

of course.

not in light.  in dark, where the eye opens within.


Jul 102016

in kindness the words fray at the most lackluster sentiment, accordingly the vacuous virtue of the night will read forward into the present like a fearless cannonball, a dalliance of longing, kept still by the windowless mercy of walls.



Jul 102016

at the last, the moment was near, in the kind stupor of a daydream, the night approached like a vindictive cousin redeeming malice with the blink of an eye.

i was considerate and rude all at once.  kept on to the right.  kept on to the left.  kept on to the delight of the monstrosity that holds us all so dispassionately adverse to the reason of time.

the street was beneath the feet but the feet were beneath the hands that climbed every wall that rose to defeat the roses of lost time.  the lost reason of time.


Jul 102016

Take the time now, they said, walk freely, they said, towards the light where virtue belongs.

Neatly, I said.

I was wrong to be serious.  I was a nudge in the face with an innocent smirk.  I kept the stove lit, wondering, how, for what, when birds soar to such an infectious state of generosity, tumbling to a dissipating state where anchors ridge drudgingly down towards clouds neat like cards.

Now, I think the words are written long before the moon can insist on epic heroism.

Then, I did not presume a future so kind.

Just keep the tired troughs ticking, I thought.  Word the methods and hold fast to the necessaries.

An avalanche of merriment, I trembled beneath my feet, flying among clouds of the tritest trope.

I remember galloping onward into the night, holding a lasso and thinking, oh my gosh, I can fly.

I was right.  I really can fly.

Apr 062016

the honest eye of virtue cascading down towards the bottom of rain that supersedes the myth of intrusion.  the poet in mind with hands like feet trembling down towards the rabbit hole with teeth of ivory and tusks of war.

delighting in so and so with the cowardly fear of the fox, feeling out towards the misty night without care and depth just like the sun.  or what.

the coffee drips slowly down towards the mountain where we wait for the moon to fall so the day can begin.  the smell so sweet and the anticipation warming the hearts of people as they sit.  on rocks.

the horizon is near, he said, without fear.  that’s impossible, he thought, with great fear.

Mar 032016

like the staying air that broadsides the moon, in times of delight only forward do the sorrowful feet of fallen soldiers march towards infinity.

like pilots in the blinding black of night, these are the portly bellows of nature that dictate the ruin of our time.  delighting in the misery of outsiders howling towards sunshine like vultures.

keeping the time.  keeping the time.



Feb 082016

I could not know here from there and I did not want to.  I had no choice but to proceed further, on as the light would say, on forward into the future, where cadences of conception are true and the light shines oh so brightly from the diffusing apex atop the sun.  The pure light resting there like love.

With coming fortune to bespeak a brutal indifference, valued disdain plagued my heart considerably.  Left aside the shelter with no storm to speak of, with no lighthouse, no shore, no rocks, no pebbles, no tide, no clouds, only the moon.

But with sincerest pity this moon shone bright.  This light – this moon’s  light would not forgive.  This moon’s light pursued my neck until the gaslights of the boulevards became more considerate than the eyes of youth.

On, I kept saying, on.



Jun 182013

eyes ahead, like bandages on the moon. he walks around. he sits among us and waits. his eyes tilted back like the sun. words uncertain, he clings to the hope. what hope? the hope of many. the hope of the silent majority, the few who fight and wish to live again.

i could begin to assert my own amazement, my own fury. i could.

i could initiate the fortune in my mind. i could.

i wonder to the sky. i wonder to the many who wish they could understand that depths of intuition that fortify the walls of this place. this landlocked imagination that spits kindness and shouts of misery. i wonder to the few who have ears and nails and teeth that sit in the bay of today.

i am the one who is myself. i am the one who makes the literate seem powerful. i am the fortunate and brave man who has read the books and written the words and cannot believe the deafening bassoon of light.

pithy. pithy like the glow of fortune that enlightens our dreams and collides unexpectedly with the future. we make that choice. all of us. we all sit and gleam and cry and laugh and wish for more, like rain or land or grief.

i cannot believe the now. nobody can, because there is no belief to be had. just sensation. just pure and wondrous sensation.

Dec 172012

I remember the vividness of the moment so well.  We were young like yesterday and I could remember the motives behind your gaze of sympathy.  I was asked politely to leave and I should have known better.  I didn’t.  I am often asked about the future by people, people I admire.  I have no answers about the future.  I have none.
But I could tell of the past.  I can remember well.