Life as a Refutation

You’ll go anywhere and anyhow
in an eruption of footsteps
or in a subtle slough of motion.
Your ambition estranges crowds
from language and makes hegemony
seem like a quaint custom.

You, the diamond crashing through
glass, the voracious appetite in
a pillar of stone, the crush of
oxygen from an endless sky.

Now or then
even as time itself expires
every grain of nothing in the void
You . . .

(I redrew the landscape.)
The trees are tufts of green.
Blue streaks flock to the emerald
sea. I awoke in a nest
of accusations–

I am myself (no matter the ends;
How far away can one go
before one is alone?)


The Art of Being Wrong

Questions have answers, and beliefs, their doubts.
Philosophies, on the other hand, kill themselves.
They speak above their station, die in their own shadow.

Let’s rectify our indecision
by devouring more opinions,
talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, until
the collected syllables collapse
into a clamor that nothing
can escape.

Or just fail by the book–
line by line–dust in the margins
–forever ago forsaken–revivified
to run a rigorous tornado at
eager senses.

Take my advice: Forget the words;
Sweep the pretensions under the rug;
Strip every sentence of its interlocking parts;
Orate with effervescent freedom.

Noise comes. Noise goes. It grinds
itself out unto oblivion.
The only true thing
is silence.


Reality is paper-thin,
exposes us like an unmade bed. Eyes
puncture every surface and ray of light.
Yet fortunate are we
that the world enamors itself so

that no one notices our wounds.
( . . . a darkness spoken
only in heartbeats.) I’ll keep
the secret, swallow it too,
if it keeps me holding onto you.

The Illusion of Drowning


I can recall very little of myself from before the age of fourteen, as if my life before then no longer belongs to me. Is this merely a curator’s decision or the murky aftermath of some alteration? Perhaps–

I am a child again, a time when you can feel like your breaths are not enough no matter how much oxygen you take in–

Motion never seems adequate; exertion, a fantasy of betterment. If I were sprinting through deep water, I’d know no boundary more intimately.

–Perhaps I will never comprehend innocence and what it siphoned off. (An ocean of me might never explain it.)

Let me no more beg for pieces of myself.
Mercy like glory fades.–and I will not
allow myself to be lost
in the undulating


Anxious as a mountainside,
Slow as a crashing galaxy,
Lustful as simmering steel,
Memory . . .

The catalyst against the eye:
On the halting horizon,
I overcame the image;
What I said then
Was lost to comprehension.

(The last star burst into birth.
We will extinguish
Before its light might ever
Wash over us.)

. . . I am
fascinated by the darkness
that it will burn away.


Memento Mori

1. Vita brevis breviter in brevi finietur.
Desire stumbles upon us as a covetous ache. I think that I know why. I’m alone now facing the wrong end of an embrace. The taking. (Stop for a moment and forgive yourself. You’ve done nothing wrong but believe in something fallible. The error of your ways is the love that you gave. Breathe out . . . )

2. Mors venit velociter quae neminum veretur.
I listen often to conversations that I am not a part of and with fierce intent. The most compelling ones are admissions, ones freely offered, of suffering inflicted arbitrarily upon others. There’s something beautiful about a guiltless confession. Like abstract art or a windstorm threshing branches and leaves.

3. Omnia mors perimit et nulli miseratur.
And there’s something violent about forgiveness. I think we must break off pieces of ourselves to survive. We trail them behind us to mark a path from youth on to our search for promises that will not all be kept. I’ve heard no secret to tell me otherwise.

4. Tum fi puer iterum et omnes complectere.
Sometimes love is a nightmare that we don’t fully awaken from.
Sometimes it is a hymn that baffles us.
Sometimes it insinuates perfectly into our warmth.
Always it evokes an ending.
An ever after.
It folds around itself.
And dreams . . .

Sadness and Strength

Some days, sadness is an epiphany. It reconnects you to yourself, reminds you of what is precious to you. The swell within you comes from a place of delicate power that we should never cease to envy. Still,

I would prefer to wake up
one day and not feel a sense
of loss . . .

And instead feel a living, breathing form of optimism with my first gasp out of a dream. That’s my ghost of the future, no eyes, no form, only essence to fulfill. It’s to me to rake it out of a moment–

somehow. I’ll be standing
in footprints that aren’t
just a memory.

Love Poem?

I don’t take the sugary wisps for granted
not today tomorrow or ever
my M. C. Escher tastes
recall the feeling
to be at war with satisfaction

(and affection)

I cannot swallow
when my heart flutters faster than
my eyes can linger
over the depths the breadths
the long thereafter

arrest us in the silken moment
white on white

(on velvet)


It is hard to be generous in a world full of exploitation. People learn to believe that ulterior motives lurk in every action. And so when you give without expectation, you are feared. When you want for nothing, you are a stranger in a strange land.

(perhaps the diamond
is the biggest myth of all
its entire value
in rarity.)

We need to articulate more of the difficult truths, for we lie to ourselves far too much. Moments can blur together and leave us in a fog of uselessness. Even if I can see no farther than your eyes as they dive back into mine, I want to be immersed in something unfathomably real.


no one has entered this world
by choice (it’s no Secret.)
but we continue living
as if the inevitable act were
an unshakeable belief.

we fire through some moments
and crystallize in others.
our Perfection disembarks when
we enter this mortal entanglement.
we defy the simple ideologies
of affection and lust (without
Love–how does one tell
flesh from stone?
how?) How?

somewhere inside our Breath’s
insistence lies the answer:
draw in. force out.
what takes must give
(reluctantly . . . but freely
all the same.)