I dream of us in endless orchards

air thick, warm, comfortable.

Skies the hue of Neptune.


We drink from plastic wrap creeks and

feed on colored lights sugared with stardust.

Others will ask us of our plans;

their voices will not get through the

endless ties of wisteria.


On a bowed branch we will sit

hands linked,

toes in the water,

souls free of trauma.


Our grief is in the words

and in the way of this world

that will never be.

Hidden Acts of Kindness


You came along and cleared the cobwebs from my mind you

put the books back on the shelves, and swept away all of the garbage.

You scrubbed the floors, opened the windows, and let the air of the

outside in.


Now in this mind of mine there is light and substance and the

silvery filigree with which you have adorned my synapses twinkles

out through my irises.

My thoughts are snapping back into action after a long period of

decay and despair.  The amusement park was

shut down for a long winter; it is opening and shining and new this spring.


I want to swim the night in your irises

I want to lock you away in a place you love and never let you out

I want you to let me let you know the way you are is perfect

And in between words, sandwiched in silence, you nibble my ear, say

“How did we find this light?”

In cowardice, my reply: “You tell me.” 

Loudly Without Words

“No one has to know.”

It is spoken in low tones.

But a secret is never completely safe,

Especially for the fleshy vessel in which it is contained.


And you wonder,

As you evade the judgment and hostility for yourself

projected from your mouth

and screened in the eyes of others,

why this has to be.


Because, you realize by yourself and with indifference,

we don’t want to cause the ones,

the sweet ones with fallow eyes and active hands,

any discomfort, awkwardness, or disruption.


As you know, someone must do the work in this world.

As you know, it doesn’t turn on its own.

And most importantly, you are not the center of it’s revolutions.

There are the inactive ones, who see, and think and feel for the

ones who are too busy making buildings, flying planes, playing

with money, and putting people in and out of cages.


They are allowed to relate all the horrors they have seen others

endure to the ones who couldn’t get off work to be there.

But you are not one of those either, it seems.


So you get to stay silent, for everyone, for the better.

And after a few feeble attempts to connect, you realize

you agree with this policy.

It is better for those with nothing to say, to say silent,

observe and keep to themselves about the things they

don’t understand.


Your time here is just a walk in the woods,

and the things you don’t say are the burdock

stuck to your black windbreaker, the pine needles

that got into your shoes and continually stab the

sole of you foot.


Sadly, it is only when you shed your outer layer and walk barefoot through the grass

that you will begin to appreciate your surroundings.


Until then, there is only silence and alcohol.

In Defense of Memory

The past was not enough

to help the hands grasp the present.

One by one the fingers fell away

and with that each link to comprehension unfastened.

He waited in his self-made covers,

Falsely immune to pressing danger.

Wanted to wait for an opening

Where maybe we could find our own

Waiting so long that it was gone

Gone, and wanting to be forgotten.

The suffering that makes the undecided child choose

To turn the hour glasses’ falling sand into a noose

Has been medicated by the option of refuse

Counting to the pace of the time we have to lose.

And leave the places we weren’t searching for.

Sometimes you can get so depressed that you can’t sit still and you just have to go out and WALK.  Tonight was one of the those nights.  I started in on myself and how I’m no good and believed it more than anyone can believe anything, so my feet started off on their own in an attempt to get away from myself.  I also completely believe that I’m dying and yet all the time I feel like I should be doing something.  My last days on earth, and even then I can’t relax and let it go.

Out on the street there was nothing, no one.  It looked alien with the creeping, swaying shadows of palm fronds bouncing underneath street lights.  For some reason, it made me imagine the skeletons of children frozen in mid-motion and stuck on a blacktop made of bubbling tar like some modern day Pompei. I liked the image and the more creative space my mind was sinking into and I felt a little better.  Being creative is strange.  If you let yourself go it can happen so easily, but then the moment you start thinking about it and become self-conscious it’s ripped away from you and then it seems so far away.

I was walking down a side street close to my apartment and there was a pile of refuse in the middle of the sidewalk.  It looked like an old dark green ratty blanket that was pulled over a pile of wet leaves.  I went to step over it and it moved.

“Fuckin’ Christ!” I gasped, and hopped to the side awkwardly landing on the side of my foot and almost rolling my ankle.  I fell into a crouched position and peered at the moving pile of debris, ready to run in case it proved to be a wild animal.  You never knew around here- it’s not uncommon to stumble upon a coyote taking itself for a walk around the block.  A face poked out; a hideous, garish face that would frighten a child and draw a look of scorn from a well-to-do hipster.  The face wobbled back and forth, the eyes darting about and squinting, attempting to make out who I was.

“Who?” he coughed out, revealing a stench indescribable.  It was like burning garbage laced with rotten saliva, strung through the bowels of a rodent.

I couldn’t answer, I could only study his face.  The nose was huge and looked like a three-foot-wide rubber hose.  It was sallow and pock-marked and looked like it had been stepped on by several steel-toed boots.  There was damage around the eyes, his right eyebrow traced along by a deep and fresh-looking cut.  The lips appeared to be non-existent; his mouth was just two sides of normal white skin cut in half by a thin black line.  The only tooth that was visible when his mouth was open hung out crookedly and was cracked and blackened.

“Heya, Randy,” the voice warbled… at least that was what it sounded like it said.

“What?  I’m not-“

“There he is!  Randy?  Shit, is Randy!  Is Randy, everybody!”

The homeless man’s bellow was horrible and sounded like it was coming from an esophagus being boiled in slime.  He lifted himself on one arm and pushed himself up into a sitting position.  He then rolled around onto his stomach and started flopping up and down slowly and feebly.

“Rand, le’s do pushups.  You remember how we do them?!  Fifty every day and after that, a bowl of oatmeal and all the fried eggs we can eat.”

He fell back over onto his butt and shrugged, half-chuckling and sighing happily.

“Well’s worth a try.  How are you been, Randy?  Is been so long.  Say you got money?  We can go to the… corner store an get a fifth.  It’s been a few hours for me, Randy, and I might start shaking soon.”

“Sir, I’m not-“ I began, but then cut it off.  I stopped, had a private moment.  This was interesting.  In all the drudgery of a life, this was a once in a lifetime interesting moment.  I could really do something here.

“Are you still in construction?” I asked randomly, suddenly feeling excited and free.

“Construction?  No, Randy.  Randy, NO!  There’s no work for me.  I haven’t worked since you were a child, Randy.  Do you have any mo-“

“How is mother?”

“That bitch!” he yelled, but not as vigorously as before.  “Randy, do you ‘member San Diego?  Tha’s where we were free.  The wind all the time and Skip.  You ‘member Skip, huh?  Little bastard.  But I went off on the deep end, and I- I left you, Randy.  I did.  I left you wading in the shallow end, pushing through the waves, and for that I am so-“

He started to heave and his breathing became heavy.  Then he turned his face toward the sky and an almost inaudible whistle escaped from his throat.  He shuddered and huffed and tears streamed down his cheeks.

“You ever… you ever get so sad, Rand, huh?  You just wanna walk into traffic.  I ‘member when you were little and your mama, she… that bitch… she told you what to do and what not do all the time.  And your father was never there and so I- I said, I’ll be the father.  But I’m just her younger brother.  That’s all she ever saw me as and she didn’t trust me with you.  I’m sorry, Randy.  But we had some good years, huh?”

I nodded, too afraid to argue.  Too afraid whatever I said would further his misery.

“I… gotta go,” I said.  “Here.”  I gave him two dollars.  He took them listlessly and studied them as if they were a foreign currency.

“I’ll see you around,” I said, half-asking.

The man, whose name I shall never know, but whose face I shall never forget, nodded.

I got back before my roommate had gone to bed and we cracked a few jokes and he worked on his music while I looked up useless information on my computer.  I saw my reflection in the computer screen and then flashed to the image of the homeless man’s face.

“I think I need to get a job,” I said.

My roommate laughed, went to his room and went to sleep.

I didn’t like the feeling I was getting and suddenly noticed it was very hot in the room.  I cracked open a beer and sat next to the AC to get cool.

“Below the Seat of Melancholy”

When my blood was curdling

you tried to freeze it in silence.

Took a mindful moment

to shop around for other’s symptoms

and bring them all back to your home.

‘Cause he didn’t want an end

That he didn’t get to own.

Didn’t want the shock

And so he tried to make it known.

If it takes a second, then it doesn’t matter when

It’s wasteful till the end, then choose another aisle.

And I’ll keep my eyes on him

‘Cause he doesn’t like surprises

Making sure he’s consulted

And never caught dying.

He’ll talk about the ones

easily working on their lives

How they have no idea

what it’s like to realize

that you no longer have the luxury

of shopping your escape plan.

“What No One Said to Me”

A confused identity

Can’t create anything,

That’s my reason.

Refusing a memory

Divorces the sensory

From the meaning.

You must just have

To keep assurance

And bet on prices

Behind curtains

As contestants of infamy.

And it will cost

More than learning

The hard way works

Like the time you’re serving

In cells of instability.

Yet diffuse indemnity

Is rarely said to be

What we’re needing.

Grotesque celebrity

Is the head to the

Minds it’s seizing.

It just came to me,

It’s a shame to lean

The way you’re leaving.

“The Farrow”

Pursued distress till it was seized,

The farrow grieves

Unruly acts.


Protested death till it’s made real

Even humility



Could have seen

It was o.k.

Or at least

It was enough.


Now greed’s seen for what it is

A force that bullies all you’ve got.


Just not to see another go

Truly counting

On dependence.

There is not finality

Till recitation of the sentence.


Failure is not the issue,

Loss is not the end

As long as there is more time

To see things through.


But when the space of loss is all there is,

The snouts hold up the bars of trough

Sniffing at the darkening

They wait to feed in comfort’s dusk.

“Humid Day”


Lunting by in twitter-light
Focus on the foal, not offal
One is vital, one unwanted
Though life is seen in different ways.

It lingers in the humid day.
Moisture is discomfort’s statement
Prattling drops, transparency
You ran so that you faced the weather.

It’s unknown how she will take it,
When heavy spaces soak her clothes
But they can never reach her bones
She’s made too strong to be absorbed.

In the humid day,
In the cricket’s night
In those in-between times,
I dream that we will be shaken


The tired image covered blankness
Whispered theories whisked away.
Queries that lack the energy
To hear the answers to themselves.