Look Like Virgin

April 26, 2012

It wasn’t from a dream,

but I woke up crying

one day after my birthday,

how am I supposed to feel?

It falls outta me–just,

like rumbling water letting out

a voice you can’t make talk.

Running like a child before he’s put to sleep.

I’m breathing top soil

rooted in dust

pale as rib bones

buried beneath

the fuck I look like.

A virgin?


Apple Cores

April 26, 2012

Wrought in lead, a papier-mâché casket

buried beneath mud with forms unspoken.

A throb knocking between stone and mallet

inscribes: here in lies… a cheap, godless slogan

without life or reason, only because

one came in another like wood ejecting Trojan.

A concrete fortress will have flaws

as dirt turns, cement raises Earth—

long-winded and open jaws

uproot dandelions screaming for rebirth

while gusts tear seeds apart to dust. Flowers

fated to curse rocked land and still birth.

May one follow the cruelest month’s showers

and sprout in the shadow of red oak stood

still in the future resurrected as towers,

find water and drink fast then, as plants should

soak up light dripping through veined leaves to ground,

where day laborers come to collect pulpwood.

 Axed trunks splinter jungle creature sound,

imperial forests left stumped in silence

by talking macaws lost and never found.

The dead tree once lived gives ordinance

as saplings grew underneath its branches.

Its death, transformed scripture’s  reverence

for the living prayers designing churches

from gold to bring salvation.  Alchemists

preach, yet hear out truth as nothing—but noises,

kept bound in a book with calloused fists,

ready to battle those dropping apple cores

atop coffins sunk into soil’s quieting mists.


September 1, 2011

A dream

perhaps a memory

what’s the difference

asking now


Silly questions broke

silence, resting

above the water

tires barrel through some other state


Every time it rains

in all directions,

blind sight and swollen

fingers guide the wheel,

space between the line

thud thud thuds

of reflectors met spun rubber


June 24, 2010

June 24, 2010


Can drive any insane.

The ones that feel

What’s being written

I’m about this way

Too many words spoken

You know what I mean

Wordsworth and Keats,

Along with the rest.

Let’s stand on a mountain top,

Feel the fleeting whispers

Of agony just because

We can’t take the beauty of it all anymore.

You say that’s been done?

It has.

Does it mean it’s too late?

So then, we should jump.

Jump off the mountain top.

Oh, wait.

That’s been done before.


I’ve got the crazies.

I want to be,

And I’m not.






Modern experimentalISM

And everything that came before.

It’s no wonder,

My sheets are dirty

My head is cracking

And this

Comes out.

It keeps coming

Out of us all

Believe you me,

Better you document

December 29, 2008

December 29, 2008

December 29, 2008

We blow dry our hair at midnight

Trying to define what it is to define the definition of our condition.

Holy Communion doesn’t help much but we are relentless with our efforts.

Molded plastic and tinfoil make us giggle

In turn our efforts are forevermore futile.

So instead I have decided—

to write a story

A very long brooding story on how you look

At me and what I see

Because you know

a funny feeling              tells me I know better.

we  laugh at stream of consciences

No matter how despicable,

We all really do,

Say this or say

One day I will travel as far as you

can catch up.

I miss myself in you

I hope you can see that.

Making  visible isn’t  harder.          The hue fades

back to defining definitions

Naked, blow drying our hair in the dark.