Every morning round seven
while the sky is still weak

they de-perch
to follow the nuanced corridors of wind
or perhaps the bleary roommates or
maybe to contemplate their sense of impending

liquid paint on the horizon, whatever it is…

With their path a closed and finite loop
they seem to face the same fate as us:
no one knows why he can’t walk straight

Maybe that is why they repeat:
Love is a talent worth developing

Vigilantes stay close to their masters
captives as well as hunters
Circling a world
they can’t make walk straight
cannot fathom why it keeps moving

I prefer the Socratic
“You grant me this, and if so,
Then that”

But what use is it
we’re lost in the punctuation

You are not understanding me

You are not telling me anything new about the world

We, too, are concerned about the speed
of our lives


At last, we ask: what is at stake?
Knowledge increases exponentially
Still, our own brain haunts us,
We cannot map it like continental lines.

Knowledge increases, exponentially
The modes of human life shift.
We cannot map it like continental lines,
We chase the future spoils blind.

The modes of human life shift,
Pure intelligence has out grown them.
We chase, the future spoiling blind,
Glancing at the grave of our own evolution.

Pure intelligence has out grown them,
The dynamic systems of natural selection.
Glancing at the grave of our own evolution,
We must wonder if this was truly our fate.

The dynamic systems of natural selection
Busy writing their own destruction.
We must wonder: If this is truly our fate,
Were we just furrows for the droughts?

Busy writing their own destruction,
Engineers toil over their machines.
Were we just furrows for the droughts?
Perhaps it won’t be over so quickly.

Engineers toil over their machines,
The many Gods of a new foundation.
Perhaps it won’t be over so quickly,
Maybe our souls will carry on.

The many Gods of a new foundation,
Still our own brains haunt us.
Maybe our souls will carry on
At last? We ask. What is at stake?

you’re a minimalist

expending only
essential motions
basic slurs
of your ambition

coughing dust, swept
in your absence
collecting I
don’t move enough
while waiting
for you

sleep’s a doll
a daylight companion
passing time spent
on highways, dreaming
buckets of frozen hair
cascaded over rocks
south of him

“it doesn’t smell so sweet
as it tastes,” you smiled

as you brought me
in every form
you could find

Comments on Frequencies

You’d never guess it, but—
All my friends
are throwing their phones off of roofs
these days,

watching the glowworm
drain, a whistle of water sucked
down a concrete straw.
Everyone is trying to shake the

The charm of this particular age is
There’s no escaping temptation,
or that sense of light-speed
as limitation,
as final as
the sum of our four walls;
That infinity is countable
numbs promise like
topical anesthetics—Yet,

We reach each other on
frequencies we’ll never see,
Empty shivers, waves
white and violet tracing nothing

Except the insomnia
and the feeling that
You are lonelier than before, only
with more people able to watch.

We have returned to dust—
Mix the elementary table
Pick apart squares over cocktails
Caress water from lunar compost.

We drink from the dark half,
The milk of millennia
A fern leaf dripping out
The alcove of our lips
Where lingers a residue
Of history, of time,
Adorning the veins in our cheeks.

We dare not venture further,
So live constantly basking
Solar greenhouses on our shoulders
Light shields on our backs
unraveling the spectrum around us.

The stars are no closer,
We laugh still.

(finding no escape,
the quivers bounce and recoil
return subdued, resigned
lie flat and collect
like fog trapped under
eternal daylight.)

We shrink our lungs,
Dig tunnels under hydroxyl lakes
Trace our umbra across the sky,
For to thrive on the face of
Annihilation is

With a younger, more reliable clock,
We live in the pockmarks
Tar his lashes with mascara and
Rear him in our image, for

Are We not God here?

… [my life] must ride on it’s own melting. (Robert Frost)

I do not want to be owned by anyone.
I do not want to be dragged around by people so invested that they can’t see straight.
I do not need you, I do not need him, I do not need these things that cannot create their own happiness so bask in and steal from mine.
I do not like people who are so insecure that they cannot stop testing.
You would not pass all of mine.
I do not understand people who cannot step outside of themselves and reflect on their words or perspective or life.
I do not think that we are weak, I do not think that we are dependent.
I think we are courageous because we care and we empathize and in that ability lies a vulnerability that is devastatingly frightening.

You could not handle what I could.
You could not accept a routine different from your ordering.
You cannot adapt.
I am flexible, I am open, I am happy and I see happiness and I want it.
I do not know its shape or form, I do not know what it sounds like or tastes like, just what it feels like.

Yet I, too, am not fulfilled.
I have no self control.
I am a contradiction. I hold dark and I hold light.
I am repetitive.

I will succeed. I will not fail any of you.
I cannot escape the hurt I will cause, or will be effected on me.
I am not your answer.
I am not your answer.
I am not your answer.

I am full of currents,
I am searching for what I already have (had).
I will find my way back to it one day.

I will never be yours.
You will not hold claim over me.
I have found that the truth I believe in bears no resemblance to this.
I cannot reconcile my love, so I leave it.
I will pay for my sins, over and over again.
I will not pay for yours.

The War never ended,
it just raged on over the putrid
carpeted floor, it’s worrisome
that i can’t say no
or yes, that i can’t say
anything when you tell me
smirking truths, like codes and ciphers
that laugh when they win
and lash out when they lose
like this was World War II
and I was your gun—you
don’t handle me well, baby,
the kick-back dislocated
the guilty in your eye-socket,
the sulfur on your fingers
betrays you—you pulled the trigger,
you pulled every trigger
every lever, pushed every button
in sight, like a toddler
with a brand new toy and
the attention span of a gnat, but
who can deny youth’s delight?

For my LS

Swift fingers &
loosened steel
dance that greedy
war of contortions
over an ocean of
sun-spilt mahogany
knowing fingers
pulling taut
silver and copper
silken claws
winding my life-strings
on some unknown axis
that neither bends
nor shakes except
to his touch.

My pen is picketing.
It spits at me—
some discharge from an alien basin
oozing viscous tar,
reeking swamp gas.

The pen prompts more rebellion:
Type cuts ties with fibers,
pulling off the pulp
Like senile stickers
their polymer (so aged it stains
your beloved birthday page, of
carefully pasted neon stars,
arranged in squirms and
creating a scene out of an
Old Western Looney Tunes.

The J is first to look suspicious.
It’s hook is smeared underfoot,
Sulfur spilled, unchecked,
Pointing a toe towards escape
At the edge of the page.

The rest start
dissolving their grip.
Letters tattoo my left palm,
fresh ink, still gleaming wet
from the weight of new lungs.

Gradually, they unfold,
bellows of an accordion,
Dancing two-steps and
Slow sambas across my desk,
A blur of alphabetic salvation.

They exhale breaths that unleash
every meaning,
every charge,
every sin
that human hands have buried in their
charcoaled dots and dashes,
Packed so thick for so long that
new freedom feels heavy.

He’s not playing those keys,
Just over them his fingers fall.
She’s not bowing those strings,
But flinging them around her like a shawl.
And he’s not smacking those toms,
Just tapping his foot along.
And they’re not plucking those uprights,
Just leaning their necks over the song.

What is this being?

A lazy extension of the limbs?
A burning improvisation of
brain waves?
A weave of clothes to warm
the night?

All I know is
The piano player’s not playing
That parchment or those keys
His fingers fall, just fall,
over each other
like the spring breeze

over each other
into air
and ivory.