I was drunk once.
Drunk on love,
drunk on lust.

I was drunk,
warm and full.

You were sober,
cold and empty.

Selfish are we,
as they breathe death.
Creeps undetected,
its gluttony is relentless.

Infected by narcissus,
obsessed with “want”.
Devoured and exhausted,
we perish when exposed.

Divided by masks,
one selfless,
the other selfish.
It's your choice.

Veins of sheets,
entangle us.
She tells me,
without sound.

Without pause,
she speaks,
in the backseat,
under frosty moonlight.

She feels me,
in blurry crowds
and through
crisp empty roads.

Follow her voice,
through mornings
painted gray.
She tells me.

Smiles with her eyes,
it's audible,
almost divine,
she glows.

She lets her hair down,
a breath of gold,
sweet and comforting.
You’re safe.

She is there,
solid as stone.
She is here,
for me.

A river carved
between nobles
One for sinful pleasures
the other a white voice of reason

amongst the multitude of rapids
they spill
sinful and holy colors
into the river
canceling the other
to a gray tinge

it is balanced
but one side could
seize the other
in noble duel
of swordsmanship of fate
flooding the land that dictates
giving into their waters

we are the estuary
that obtains these actions
thus the color of the river
feeds into and tints
the larger self, the ocean

It was much more than
wind, it was as if
your spoken verse
pushed me

it was early
just before
the radiance revealed
cloaked mist lands
wet in dew

reading what
I received in slumber
you broke the silence
in the effort to mend
the loose stitches

but there is nothing...
the life rushed out
leaving not a simple drop
stitching would not change
what I lost

so I converse in the act
of silence
hoping that maybe
your tailwind
that pushed me
would die

Walking in the dark
Myself peering from each corner
Representing who one could be
Their eyes full of temptation
Hesitate each step
Waving digits like neon signs
Gesture to meet
These selves are evidence of things unseen
Desires only known to me
These desperate figures of embrace
Are who make up the dark
That have hollowed out my husk
In the dark we feel belonging
This is where I am kept
Until I choose
Amongst the horde of fates

I sometimes forget or regret
Not knowing you
Your roots run deep
As does mine
But your shaded limbs
Stole my light
Pilfered my water
You were a rotted tree
Plagued with fungus
that grew into your mind
infecting the heartwood
it poured out through your limbs
spilling into the air
choking the saplings
as we fought for light

it was only then
when you were cut
removed from grounded roots
that we could feel the
warmth of the sun
that fueled our growth

You murdered me,
during spring.

You said the words,
among elder forest.

It was space,
that divided the earth.

I in darkness kept away,
dying in black.

Light and luster far,
as the sun.

Hand only reaching,
to things and you.

You murdered me,
with space.

do you remember?
Your young mind

innocent and sweet
no room for brood thoughts

do you remember?
the way the grass felt

how the sun glazed your skin
on a warm summer day

do you remember?
the laughter

and how it danced through the air
like fire flies at night

do you remember?
the simple gesture

of a smile from your kin
which, gave you such warmth

can you remember?
or have you forgotten

has society locked it away
their judgement is crippling

why have you forgotten?
what keeps this at bay?

the everyday social pillars
molds you this way

it is not easy to unlock
and grasps the conception

your young mind
is waiting

it is waiting
to tutor you
in finding your self
and unlock the beauty

so can you remember?
what will it take...?

to live each day
in this way

To those who ache,
rusted by love.
Breathe.

When you are standing,
shinny and new.
Breathe.

When you are ready,
scramble the sharp rocks.
And Breathe.

When you find yourself,
Tell yourself to,
breathe.

Find the breathe of you,
and keep breathing.

This here is my home,
metal sides of cold.
Death drips,
from the roof and mold.

This here is my home,
I run away far with my car.
To find myself parked,
staring through the dark.

This here is my home,
the walls mutter judgement,
charred with abandonment.

This here is my home,
It's gone now,
Burnt to the ground.

This here was my home.

Streaks of gold
Flicker through the canopy
While it lights the cabin
Here is where
I notice the features of you
Its luminance is fitting
To every inch
Your gaze is fixed
Upon the painted green
You don’t feel
My mind mapping
The exquisite soft details
Perfect in any position
You quickly turn
Your strains wisp
Caught by unforgiving wind
In seamless unison
You ask
“Where are we going?”
A slight pause
Remembering
How my heart lifts
When meeting your gaze
I respond with the smile
“You’ll see my love”

You should know,
that I no longer follow my compass.
Where the wind pushes,
I lead with squinted eyes.
The horizon is far,
cradled with opportunity.

I’ve taken the step for once,
without you and your map.
I’ve held my hand out,
gave you coordinates.
Yet, you hesitate.

You should know,
I’ve tried.
We no longer scramble,
the sharp edges of “what if?”.
Instead, the question is,
“what now?”

How did it come to this?
I thought with the sun.
Tying the string,
on brush and broken branches.
Will you follow?
The hints, arrows, and signs.

Our maps are different,
one south and one north.
Still, I tried,
circling landmarks left and right.
You will not go north,
but south.
We depart in full gate,
away from our point.
Alone.

You should know,
its time to say goodbye.

I love you.

It is felt
When rays dip below
The unforgiving trees

It is felt
In late autumn
When color is ******
From the land
Leaving towering skeletons

It is felt
In the depth of winter
Where silence
Blankets the house

It is felt
Even in spring
Where gardens are like children
Cared for and fed
But now starved and dead

It is felt
Yes it is
I have felt
This… for years

Within men
there lies a deep crevasse
blacker than black
it is hidden but not forgotten
you step in
among the black
a shrine of rot
once stiff and steady
the guardian here
can no longer mend
he is one man enclosed
in ragged rice paper walls
governing the atmosphere

that is sprinkled with false stars
the guardian though frail
keeps the light yet faint...alive
without one acknowledgment
of presence
he says:
*“one wrapped in contract
shall not be cursed
the light awaits to be nurtured
come now
stay and rest
for this will mend
and fill this black crevasse”

Black berry bushes
Wagon wheel fields
And a paint chipped house
Is where you
Spent your younger years

Fragrant straw
And fresh dew
Filled your mornings

Clinking mason jars
Were the bells
That rang in the,
full breath of summer

sprinkle of soil
on your cheek
bare feet
and a dog
named Cash

if I was there
if we met then
this is how I see you
and how I would fall
in love

City lights banter,
with the night.
We walk,
like water and,
with things unseen.
Step with tranquility,
alone with serenity.

The grass can sing
like strings of violins
blades gently rubbing
a whispering sound
ambient and true
the waves
brush your ear
as you listen
to the symphony
as they greet the Olympian
covering the land
with golden ribbon
they play
to welcome the new day

Here you you are again
Tripping up each sy  sy syllable
It’s like walking a smooth path
Except, I am skipping

My in-step barely touches the dirt
Before I can form the s s sound
With each skip and st st step
I try to ease my stride

How I long for this
A fluent pace, without a scamper
For I have places to be
And thoughts that need a voice

But, yet I skip and fu fu fumble
Tripping on each stone
And each vowel, noun and sound, mostly “e”
Is skipped and repeated ******

When I think of you,
I compare you to the sun.
Bright, beautiful and warm.

But, when you rise,
I want you to set.
Your bright rays,
overwhelming.
Your warmth violent,
it burns my heart.

Our gradient skies are no longer,
filled with our color.
Your wall of light,
pushed me to nights envy.
Now, I am with the scorned moon.

Waiting — sitting — dark eternity,
for a sun to rise again.
A sun that could share,
my sky.

I’m sodden newspaper,
heavy with time.
Mucky layers,
that pull apart in chunks.
Masking detail,
of stories of my soul:
Hymns of love,
transcribed in invisible ink.
Mastheads that yell,
like father did.
Fables of summer in the wood,
when I was a boy.
These are my columns,
my life.

You pushed me,
off course.
Gray fog resentment,
clouds the stars.
Remote and far,
in my own mind sea.
As distant as summer,
in autumns eyes.
I’ve sailed far,
so far I can no longer,
remember your face.

clouds as curtains
cover the woody stage
it is gray and silent
then a sound softly lifts
as a frigid shroud prowls
they begin to pirouette
gracefully in quick allegro
filling the stage
as they cloak the silent forest
the tempo quickens
as each beautiful shimmer
in chaotic choreographic elegance
coat the stage in white
the tempo doubles
a barrage of white
dancing to the tune
the stage now full
the twinkle of the new
falling stars
ready their final bow
the tempo fades
clouds as curtains open
revealing a shining canvas
the moon is in place
and the silence now kept

Let’s get this straight.
I could write this,
using visual metaphors.
As architects build,
or painters paint.
Instead, my blood boils,
with oil and **** at the thought.  

Poems are a release,
for the empathic.  
I could tell you,
nothing is something.
How there is always,
light in darkness.
But, most importantly,
love is cruel.

I could look to,
Emily or Li-Young.
Study the beautiful words
and the mastery of pen.
I protest and reject this,
I will break my rhythm.
Then I will cry,
self-doubt and blood.

You see the word emotion,
is the world to me.
Absorbing as a typhoon does,
all the good and bad.
I could proclaim,
that this is a gift.
To me it is torture.

Even as I write this,
it fills my glass.
Hot magma rises,
boiling to the top.
It will ******* spill over.
I want it to.
The release will feel empty.
Vacant.

There is nothing more,
I could say or jot.
Scribble my protest,
to the heavens.
Why do I feel?
How do I feel?
Why do I feel this much?

Hands cracked as dried soap
******, battered
working out on the dust
its hard and still

a whisper of a geared wagon
tickles the ear of the fickle man
it is he... the man who points
he checks his list and nods
the man receives his daily remuneration

crackle of the sand paves the way
to a tin roof collective
where blurry eyed gentlemen line the plaster
the fickle man trades his social note
for a golden friend

When the house and isle;
Is steeped in morning
The weathered structures
Almost blend in the calm
Their gray matches;
The somber mood
This place is still and fine-tuned
To the hum of distant waves
The wind that blows here
Is light today and gentle
The mist has settled
Upon the Gray Lady
As if orchestrated by artists
Softly she sounds her beacon
A whisper riding the white caps
To the vessels that make way
To her gentle morning shores

My grandfather often tells me
“follow silently in the wood”
they, the timber and fauna listen
for heavy steps and cracks
and with one careless fumble
they fade into the limbs
he said “tread lightly and listen”
perking his ear to the wind
only then, if your silent
peaceful beauty will emerge

Push.
Pull.
******.
Bend.
Hit.
Slap.
Tweak.
Touch.
Turn.
Feel.
Slide.
Press.
Stroke.
Hold.
Twist.

It's ok…ah.
You know just what,
I like.

You will find me
In willows
Plucking fire files
From the evening
As poets ink
and weave lines

It is where I am
Most humble
Here under
Dreadlock canopy
It harbors and sings
An evening sonnet
As leaves tune the wind

My ink flows well here
Soft and forgiving
Along the parchment
Like the tamed northeast
Blowing through limbs above

You  will find me
In willows
Lost in pages
Of past loves and
Attempts for forgiveness

This timber is tall and full
Sending down strains
Of blades that I forge
When in reach
I pull to review
An inspiration, a memory
A past love

I sometimes wonder when
My willow will give in
And not lend its
Strains down to me

That is why I reach farther
Holding what I can
Because frankly
I like being lost
Lost in willows

Peering through the pane
My eyes fixated on color
A brilliance
Lit by a golden glow
I place my hand on the pane
Cold and crisp
It is Sunday morning
And silent
The faint sound of the breeze
Keeps silence in tuned
I am now in trance
As I peer through
My breath slightly fogs
It is Sunday morning
And I am tuned with silence

it was sometime in November
amid caffeine, books,
and fermented spirits
we laid parallel
as the morning sang a hymn
welcoming the new day
the air was between
crisp and warm
you could hear
the crunch of fallen blades
as pupils rush
to their next shift
transfixed in wonder
of who will give in
to the morning
our bodies
navigating  an endless sea
of tangled cloth
trying not to cross
into lands that border our own
even though these exquisite
properties became one
in the dark before last
it was sometime in November
you turned over in graceful play
and smiled
with nervous blinks
that complimented
the lingering sentiment
of autumn

Among concrete timber
They hover
Through the hard scape
Haunting those who pass
Begging for societies rewards
They float without notice
Without eyes meeting
They are taboo
Not worthy of your court
Or a nurturing society
Sentence to loitering
The ghosts

The ghosts of LA

Out here it is organic
All natural, but fake

This is just a shell
5 parts this, one part you
precise, measured and able

yes that single part
potent and true
which can not be seen
but, only spoken
through honest lips

here is where you are
locked away
wrapped in chain
Behind the flesh and blood

You can feel it, can’t you?

yes this husk
is exquisite
its curves memorizing

it attracts
the buzzing flies
that fester lust

but, yet molded
by towering monopolies

injecting social narcotics
into the minds of society

No, this not...
you...

peel away the physical
fraud that is your cloak

reveal thy self
to me, to the world

lets gaze upon them

from our inner eyes
let them see the glow
and the spectrum of desire
that you only speak of
alone...

let them feel
the truth of thorns
pricking the outer shell

mutter the wants, the needs
that have yet to be poisoned
by societies posted order

let them smell blood
of the free and tangible

yes, reveal thy self
let them gaze, smell, hear and feel

you...

These are wounds
piled on my desk.
They bleed for
attention and ink.

These are nameless,
kept away from view.
******* children,
of my quill.

Urchins in rags,
unkept and unfinished.
They haunt my dwelling,
as beggars do.

They are dismembered,
without proper structure.
Perhaps faceless,
void of identity.

Give them names,
would equate their freedom.
Label them,
and they shall see the sun.

Or not,
and leave them,
as they are.

Untitled.

From straw the color gold
her hair feeding the west wind
she laughs my true love

the gold ribbons speak
peaking over the ragged crest
release winters hold

Dancing silently
In timber of white veneer
There she pirouettes

You are a garden,
make the promise,
to feed yourself.
Tend your bed.

Surround yourself,
with fertile nourishment.
Swallow in the rays,
of positive energy.

Know what you are not.  
Eliminate the weeds,
the friends and blood,
stealing what gives you life,
what makes you tick.

Know your companions.
Grow and deepen,
your roots with them.
Share the glorious light.

Open your palms, leaves,
to yourself.
Grow, rise, and promise,

to reach to the sky.

she dances into black
engulfed in a wheel of hues
her limbs as if time lapsed
reveal the colorless to color
follow her, meet her steps with yours
mimic the routine based in ritual
paint each movement with small gestures
feel the momentum of each pass
let her lead through the dark and the unknown
she is but a nimble teacher
one who teaches each daunting step
that you carelessly fumble
your stride pressed in the soil, set but true
finding each print is fate
you can’t stop stepping forward
but, she will lead, on your rhythm
it is up to you which regiment, which plan
just take the first step
she will instruct and correct each fluid motion
from the beginning, middle and end
until your last performance
like many before, in pure innocents
you waltz at the edge of your stage
it will be graceful as a summer eve
ending with only in the sounds
of the night

it is times like these my mind wanders
the mind picks a door, a path, a road
gracefully peers down the passage
entering a full spectrum of even more
displayed as little treats
I pluck from the neat order
off I go to wander
dawdle, I shall not
I step through each frame
and experience the blue prints
piece together each puzzle
again I pluck from the order
off I go to wander
this suite is different
large square and black
it plays flickering monochromatic films
that bring translucent drips  
again I pluck
this time it is warm
candle light sets the scene
a bed, a girl and a flipped lid
oh yes, her from the nook
my mind building her perfectly
every curve painted in detail
my hand following each
we step closer

closer...

closer...
closer...

SLAM!
the wind reminds me of reality
I awake
with eyes wide and breath heavy
to a soundless house

Cast away thy woes
bring bounty to the table
We and I shall feast
Yes, we feast
Like kings of old
Fill thee salver
keep steins wet
and we shall feast
now come fill your court
with kindred spirit
and dance in linear toe
until thy fellowship
is askew and crapulous
laugh through thy belly
and out through thy nose
neck the nearest matron
thy night is early
and daily labor is through
now drink my chap
my friend, my kin
before the night is through

Each of us a stream
Flowing over today's trials
Each new splash trains us

In seeing,
as a child,
breathing blinded.

As we fail to remember,
what we want,
and need at that moment.

We are greedy as ants,
following the path,
striving for the same leaf.

We are small,
humbled by blue sky,
and the night stars.

Only then we remember,
who we really are.

A high moon in a glittering canvas
it dances among the ragged crests
following us to northern forest
where a boreal landscape
is soft with white veneer
reflecting back to the sky
from which it came
your eyes gaze in wonder
through the pane
as the blur of dark races pass
your feet on the dash
and your face lit by a full winters night
you smile

I am opaque.
Just as a chameleon,
I blend.
But, long for color,
that connects us.
That too is opaque,
gray even.
As clouds,
heavy with rain.
Or fog,
as I reach blindly.

You don’t see me.

I am opaque.
Unworldly in sight,
but warm with blood.
Feverishly pumping,
want and need.
To touch,
that touches nothing.

You don’t feel me.

I am opaque.
Follow, I do the waltz,
seamlessly to impress.
Supporting each step,
as your wings are spread.
Catching the wind to fly,
I fall, knowing my place.

You don’t need me.

I am opaque.
Embrace,
is how I dream.
In reality, separated,
by brick and stone.
Each break mended,
carefully from the other side.
I am tired and sore,
but I pick away.

You don’t want me.

I am opaque.
With a low head, I choose,

to stay this way.
Defeated, the fog rolls in,
thick and vengeful.
I will do what I do best,
blend.

I am opaque.

“just a small dream”
“It was childish to think…”
I thought

The cold stole my breath
And froze each digit

“It was childish to think…”

My body slunk into white
As the thought raced through

“It was childish to think…”

“that”

“I”

“could”

“fly”

How did I get here?
Upon this bench,
I sit.
Watching the frames,
fill and flicker.
It is screen play,
you see.
You are the star.
These other entities,
they are just extras,
in your world and mine.
So, I watch the scene,
as laughter echo’s and
foot steps scamper.
Audiences infected,
by your momentous energy.
Although they do not know,
you, nor do I?
Or is it that I do not understand,
this metaphor of distance.
I wonder about the end,
of this tall tale.
Tragic?
Dramatic?
Happy?
I wonder…
How you must think…
of me?

Make no mistake,
you reveal yourself at the bottom.
It's dark and cold,
your pale with black hair,
And **** yellow eyes.

You float,
in your prison.
Void of breath,
and golden rays.
Bringing life,
and color.  






You’ve hit bottom.







Below this,
you feel helpless.
As a trapped animal
waiting to die.

The weight I carry,
was all for you.
Now you left me,
at sea.
I’ve drowned,
months ago.






In 2018, I hit bottom.







Below this…
Glass like,
motivation shatters.
Further you fall,
into darkness.
Your voice,
no longer ripples.
Let it take you.









How much further?








With struggle,
I can’t sink like a stone.
There are souls,
who need me.
Your hand pulls,
me down, it's heavy.
I kick you,
I punch you,
I struggle,
to let you go.
Your grip is,
loose and careless.
Like the past three years.

With a swift kick,
I am free.

I


Let


You


Go

the moon in glory
lights the twinkle in the snow
a fox softly steps

Dark is what he sees…
What he feels…

Dark is the sea
black

His heart is the dam
Built with decayed wood

Release the pressure
Let the cold black flow

He whispers:
“let it flow”

The only beacon
A withered light house

The glow is the path
Guiding his frail frame

Yet it fades
With every splash

He whispers:
“let it flow”

limbs kick and scream
toward the gleam

they stop
and give in

his body begins to blend with black
the cold stains his skin

the feeling flows like ink
dripping off every digit  

He whispers:
“let it flow”

his eyes wide and strange
the realization of end

gulps his last sip of air
and his body slumbers into black

the dam breaks
the black flows