Dear the softhearted:
Sympathy won’t come.
Mourn this day
and drink its poison,
leave the ones disembodied
to haunt and garrotte.

Dear the kindhearted:
Forgiveness won’t come.
Stand thin, bloodless.
Who’s waiting at home for you?

A neon glow,

a flourencent daze,

a shine of the sun’s rays upon a rose display.

The shade felt from a midnight ****,

or from fire around tiki poles

in a field.



Some say it’s a recognized face

that makes one feel home.

But it’s a familiar light

that makes us

feel welcome.

take my fears and

place them by

the river bed


--if you can--


swim near the shore

and hold my head

above water so

I can see land,

only then

will I believe

what’s in

store ahead.

Many are lost songs

dispersed in forests,

locked behind logs.

The keys were thrown

with penny-ful wishes.

There are

    leaves on the ground.

There are

    few in the trees—

    that hung on during winter;

    that will be the first to go

    come October.

One match—
starting a fire
to thoughts and ideas
spreading in circles
attaching to everything
other people catching wind to it;
from the mountains
and the lowlands
it is seen.

Left me on sharp stones
fighting white caps in the ocean,
saying goodbye with our eyes.

Skin cut,
reading rulebooks.
This is heat this current leads,
and my hunger eats away at my hope of finding—

One of those small islands
(not able to be found on maps)
just to get away from the water
and sleep and tell what I’ve been travelling for,
‘cause I’ve been traveling for awhile now.