Monday, December 27, 2010


the frost passed the time
running its fingers
through the woods

picking and pulling
until everything
was still

i crossed the line
without ever acknowledging
the bridge

and when i shook her hand
previous nights, laid calm
turned to glass

we spoke in tongues
and never once
spoke a vowel

hung in the knotted absence
of retrospect
in windows and door frames

where exits
and entrances

Monday, December 13, 2010


never stood a chance
-it's not enough
to coalesce-

only whispers gather here.
their arms, long and brittle
as fragile as the night air
-hushed- around a lustful breath.

wishes and prayers
parch and bleed
where delicacy and depth
circle the fire

reaching out for each other-
and turning to ash
for unremittence
discovered in the cusp

of hands
held from lips
to ears, and eyes
not found.

Friday, December 3, 2010

-rerum concordia discors- a collaboration with christy harrington

the cost of courting
a sliver of heaven
-ad nauseam-
in the belly of hel
lwith nothing left of a soul
to enjoy it

the stars
and none the richer
the rust of a weathered sky
-ad infinitum-
in holed pockets
saved for rainy days
never spent

where the edge of longing
carries the sound of silk
ripping along the seams
a candy cane smile
running out of time
caught in the mire

and that pittance
such a pity
shall be buried amidst the living
as the cost of courts proclaim
-rerum concordia discors-
and all those imaginary kingdoms
are left with no place
but to dwell

if only in their complicity
where colorful cautions
still riddle the crook
of every outstretched hand
-cleverly closed-
in doorways
and later found wandering the streets

with likehearted criminals
thieves, if only borrowers
wishing never to return
man in admiration of his own -shiny off switch-
woman inept in anything beyond +ongoing love+
both roaming lonely in treacherous corridors
one with empty pockets
the other, void of

Tuesday, November 23, 2010


it will get very dark
and it will happen
faster than either of your eyes
can adjust

and the barbed wire of late,
and foriegn, penniless nights
spent in blank stares
and bleek weather

will creep up and around
and around... and around
and around each breath
like the long shadow of a ghost.

eventually, your eyes will adjust
and the clarity of these
will strike you

from the tips of your fingers
to the depths of your heart
with the ice cold interruption
-and accompanied isolation-
of a suddenly empty room.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

mount parnassus

when i met this kid, all we did was make poor decisions that cost us a lot of money. but i'll be damned if we didn't have a great time. one day, he met this girl who was a mystery to all of us, and the next day -quite literally- he was moving in with her some odd thousand miles away, in texas. now they are engaged, and producing music that is blowing me away. and i want you to hear it.!/pages/Mount-Parnassus/355129231955

in the very near future (i'm so lucky to already have a copy), a cd will be available to the masses. let me know if you are interested, or grow a pair and ask him -or her- your damn self.

please enjoy.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010


if in such an order
we are so illusive
the adorned cry-baby
assumes nuisance.
and while i don't really
know -or care-
about compliance,
i am left here -again- 
at the threshold
of defiance

so the cold grip
turns to rash speech.
and the speed of
does a 180
and begins to peel-
later, found wandering
"lucid as grace".

it's not wanted
or subjecting;
it's not cornerstone work
or disposable
and handsome,
but it fits upon the fork-
and we'll eat it just the same

Sunday, November 14, 2010


diet plan/exercise routine:
grow old, and/or
forget to show up.
sleep, without a wake.
bed, without a mate.

nursing home/final resting:
shuffle blindly
and with jokers.
watch everyone else go first.

reading material/extracurricular:
something light,
with an 'off' switch.
stay busy, stay sane.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

suicide is easy

i can    

              a gun


in tourquois

with a

of a

Friday, November 5, 2010

if you are interested, here is listing of photography. prints are available, please do not hesitate to ask. i would be more than willing to trade. lord knows, i love a good bartering.



i tore out the pages
where you feigned love,
like a carpenter ant
discovers a new home
(a place to dwell,
and later, eat).

it wasn't much.
there was never much to say.
so i folded up each page,
into soiled hands
sewn together
in permanent confession
(a place to dwell, 
and later, eat).


buried deep in sleeplessness
a lost cause
wandering around
in lust and
sic(kly) spoken attributes

i ache in my dreams
where death
stumbles drunkenly
in dreams of you

but you'll never know.

it's already too late.

too late to remember
that the wells
are too deep to forget

upon disfigurement
the color of want
turns to ware,
and we are -again-
reaching for the throat.

if you ask me, it's got nothign to do with vacuums

and curve
cuddle the edge
with your fists
curled up
red handed
in your throat
with nightmares
at your fathers
under your mothers
in a house
that soon
won't be a home
at all


i buried your words
in my throat,
with faithful irrational-ism.
they have parched,
making me cough
with your pulse

the slivers
left in the open
like blank canvas'
sheltering all our
with a hammer's grace

the words
will -eventually-
make their way out,
in crumpled napkins
shadowed under
a cupped hand-

left idle
-like idolatry-
caught in the act of
sleeping alone in
a wastebasket linger.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

hobo funeral

I: trip wire

she'll enter cold
like a match made in heaven
and every morning,
another dramatic curtain call.

i just do not have the patience.

in my dreams,
her eyes go from cyanotic,
                    to strychnine,
                    to apartheid ghost.

II: finding a new place to hide our hands

i carved
the subtleness of lying
from the finish
on her bed frame.

while our insides
were worth our weight in words,
the insinuations,
had begun to sweat
like dynamite.

soon estivate,
wasn't the half of it.

rejigger, on the other hand,
was at least the other half.

the pocket in my hand

one day,
the rattle of
spider-legs, and
sickly paranoia,
will become soft
and flexible
like the sticks and stones
in our bellies.

that same day,
at the bottom of the stairs,
there will lay
a book of matches
and the shallow graves
of all our secrets
carved out of bad intentions,
and even worse apologies.

the ability to suit
having apparently
been cut delicately,
and paper thin.

so much
that even in all it's elegance,
with only a few words
and some spit,
our teeth lost all feeling,
and fell out.

all the vague elaborations,
carefully tucked away
in paper wasps' nests.

the rooms i all ways end up in
that no one ever finds

until everyone is dead.


the color
of shadows and lines
    drawn in the dark space between us
    the shapes and contents
    -luggage, and lucrative examples-
                         scribbled half-heartedly
                         in the corner of our eyes
                         and in the palm of my hand

             where is this?

when the stains have faded
i will wash my hands in your escape
                         and no one.

            a sleep cycle curls
            at my feet
               in a fatal error
              -a fetal position-

        how our hands
        have carved...

                                      our teeth will rest.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010


                a child
                                  born of ghost...s
                   ...and forgottton
                          just as easily...
static in the background
                                      -not even real-
                   crawling through
                                            (gouge away)
              little holy fingers
              whole holy fingers
                                            (gouge away)
                                    shots in photos
                                               a flash in your mind
                         not ever really                "thought out"
               a flutter of
                                       lost in the aftermath
                      of our own lust...s
                                                                       ...dont forget...

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

of knives and knees and one set of keys

in the dark,
my spine would cringe.

i'd flinch.

my feet would fail me.

and just the once
as i hit the ground,
i found your knife-

the shadows showed up,
they were never late
-that's not the point-
i wiped the blood from my face
and discovered that it
wasn't me that was bleeding

so i guessed-
took a stab in the dark,
you could say.

now, i digress...
but only because i must.
only because,
you have said it all.
now you must bask
in the plot lines.

there is no argument.

no shelter from shade.

no place hidden enough,
to turn the key
without someone noticing,
that the knives you stabbed
in everyones back,
were the knees you used
to emphasize plight.

bent like crooked letters
written about close calls,
commonplace, and con-artistry.


i already knew
that there were senses
     farther from our conversations
     than charades or roses
     could neither betray
                      nor help

but i covered myself in dust
just trying to (remember?)
                    fill in the holes.

     and incidentally,
     time, became a gathering of arms.
     and it was selfish
     to have held it
     like a womb-

              casual hair-triggers
              next to calm, spent shells.

    it had become itinerary,
    to wear my flesh to the bone-
    crawling on my belly,
    brushing bloody kisses off the walls,
       and peeling bait off the fishhooks.

but i'm cagey.

i pretend i don't know.

Friday, October 29, 2010

sensory rejection

was only a frigid reminder.
i colored all the letters in
and whited out my name.

in the dark -i don't recall how often-
i turned over to see who,
pulling her hair from my face,
and wondered -almost aloud-
if she could taste you


something skittish
(like all my lovers
held lovingly
to my lovers' throat,
with all the
feverish precision,
that the strings
and redirect-
where coarse sands
navigate the slower
"moments" in time)
that will never end.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

coupling and/or fitting

a photograph
of coupling
[a sip...]
a bar napkin
an empty bottle.

i turn your memory face down.

seating for just one
[a few more]
a letter
another empty bottle
on an otherwise
empty table.

a picture with no name-
of a place that looks familiar...

starlight found
in the glove box;
weather found
in our breath;
solace found
at the lip of the tap;

and now,
nowhere to digress.

welcome home.

antibody parts, or, delicate; weary (parts I-V)


i dream about you
when you are sitting right in front of me

it's simple
and control-aware
but covert and coveting
all the same

i dream about
your legs;
your hands;
your hips;
that spot,
where your neck
meets the back of your jaw;
that place
where i place my hand-
when my lips
confront your words
and cut them short
with a swift,
and fluid movement

that split second
when earth meets gravity
and the gravity of this moment
displays the moment we left behind

it was important once

that we will covet again
a later
that was here all along.


can we just stop?

just pull over
the car;
the cover;
the last
shivering moments,
from our faces
and arbitrary foreground(s)...


can i just tell you...?

i touch you in my sleep,
carving my name
across your flesh,
with the tip of my tongue.

i crease the edge
with longing
and calling...


when contact(ing),
leads to perforation,
there's only so much
time, before we start
to drown in presence...


i found our halos
in a first aid kit,
under the stairs.

and it occurred to me-

if we could just stop,
i could still love you.


i follow her gaze
because she is
'nothing to speak of'
and i've
nothing to speak on.

the grace of her lips
become bluish
in the hesitant culture
of pioneering
new ground;

eyes closed,
gripping rigid breath;

hands all over
in open intensity;

tongue in cheek;

a grain of salt.