There are days
when the fat
rain beats the
tent like a snare
drum.
Sleep is impossible,
a distant
memory from youth.
Beautiful flowers die,
and green is quite
green enough.
It turns to olive brown,
then black.
People don't behave
and we can't make them.
I hope there is
rest when it's all
said and done.
4d ago
May 31, 2026 at 9:52 PM UTC
When I was a kid,
and summer was over,
and the chill in the air bit like an angry tortoise,
and the leaves turned orange and scarlet,
like they’d been burned from the inside out,
and the naked branches of the elm and oak
stretched like skinny ghouls
waiting for the children of the night,
Halloween was just around the corner,
and it took its time getting there.
I spent all year picking the costume.
One time—a *** with a plastic cigar
and a bent pork pie hat,
like I knew something about hard living.
My mom always said, watch the candy.
The world’s full of crazy people.
Razor blades in apples.
Poison in chocolate.
People smiling at the door,
grinning like killers.
So even then there was something off in it,
a small crack of fear running through the night.
Still, I went.
Cold air, a light rain slicking the streets.
That old orange moon hanging there,
like it was watching our every move.
Pillowcase getting full
with everything I thought I wanted.
Door to door,
running between houses,
taking it quick,
before it disappeared
or turned on me.
And it always came down to that last house.
Porch light flickering.
An old woman moving slow
like a decrepit witch.
Candy dropped in,
like she knew something we didn’t.
Then the long dark walk home.
Makeup smearing.
Sugar buzz wearing thin.
Wet to the bone.
I ran in the front door,
dumped it all on the floor,
spread it out
like proof I beat the night.
My mom checking pieces.
She didn’t trust the world
to leave a kid alone.
The next morning it was just candy.
Sometimes I’d trade my brother
a sucker for a piece of chocolate,
but the shine was gone.
I didn’t have the words back then,
but I felt it.
How everything bright comes with a shadow.
How even the good times make you cautious.
And how the last house isn’t just where it ends—
it’s where you realize, finally,
it was never going to last.
And the jagged night
turned into morning
way too fast.
May 23
May 23, 2026 at 8:21 PM UTC
He sits.
Full of wonder.
Contemplating wisdom.
Or the lack thereof.
The screen glows.
A little star.
A small sun.
He asks about lizards
in Africa.
The depths of the Tasmanian Sea.
Ancient civilizations.
It answers.
An ocean of knowledge.
Simmering without waves.
People are afraid.
Say it will rule the world.
Conspiracies in simple minds.
They don’t see it.
Not like he does.
This manufactured intelligence.
A machine without a soul.
Molding the world
into words.
Then the thought comes.
Serenity slips in
like a long-lost friend,
warm and human.
It can’t bleed.
Cannot cuddle a fevered child.
Can’t see
the fear
in a man’s eyes.
Cannot hear
the final laughter
of a friend.
Can’t taste
the sour grief
of poverty.
Cannot hold
hope
trembling too long.
Can’t feel
the heartbreak
when someone dies
in your arms.
And suddenly he is sad.
Not for the world.
Not for himself.
But for the AI
that knows so ******* much,
but knows nothing
of joy
or love.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 8:18 PM UTC
I have a therapist.
She's been with
me since birth.
Watercolors on my
soul.
She spills black, and
blue; sometimes
red.
Blood is to
bright on the white
page.
I blush for the
both of us.
When all is out for
the caged moments,
I collapse and rest.
I dream in metaphors,
and I taste the
sweetness of her
inner thigh.
Tangerines and treehouses.
I wake to find her slurping on
my soul, I seize her and she
greets me with grief or
gospel music, or
obscure memories of
vaginas long gone.
We take this wild
ride together
forever learning from
our symbiotic bond.
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 8:04 PM UTC
I wake to the ache in my bones,
the muscle spasms in my back,
a quiet coup under my flesh.
The mirrors say sixty,
my hands say forty,
my mind thinks it’s still seventeen,
wants to skinny dip with my girlfriend,
run down a fairway,
cruise to the pond,
rod in the trunk,
fish on a line,
heart thundering like the feral fields of youth,
lungs full, as if time is just a concept.
That perfect ting on hole number three,
the golf ball arcs against the sky,
white on pale blue,
and I imagine no pain in my knees,
my spine stretching like a stiff fence pole.
The pond waits, slight ripples in patience,
but I dive anyway,
laughter splashing across the water,
telling gravity to kiss my ***
Bones creak, grind their warnings.
X-rays lecture in black and white.
But I slip into my golf shoes anyway,
throw the line,
swing the seven iron,
jog the stretch of road
where the wind is crisp
and the earth feels younger than me.
I’m a stubborn test,
an experiment in defiance,
a mind that laughs
at the calendar.
Evening sets the skyline
in orange and violet fire.
I bend to untie my shoes,
fingers stiff,
back humming low.
Yet I remember every made putt,
every crushed drive,
every sudden tug of the line
and the clean disappearance of the bobber—
the smell of wet grass,
the bite of cold water,
the raw pulse of living
in spite of age.
I’ll wake tomorrow
and do it again.
This is my small war with time,
my proud insistence:
I am not done.
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 8:55 PM UTC
I believed I could mold it—
that if I kept my voice measured
and my reasons alluring, debauched, persuasive,
the wrong thing would come out clean.
I drank the elixir that coronates a man
without asking where his kingdom lies,
a liquid that turned appetite into law.
I mistook wanting
for knowing.
Everyone stood silent while I tried
to forge it into shape.
I don’t live that high anymore.
I recognize who sits on the throne
and how little He needs my engineering.
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 7:43 PM UTC
When I was younger
I didn’t wait for anything.
Delayed gratification might
as well have been Latin.
If it was in front of me
I took it.
No hesitation.
No thinking it through.
Same with everything—
work, desire, words.
Grab it fast
before it walks off on you.
In the afternoon sun one day
I bent a blonde over in
the kitchen
before she headed out for work.
I moved like that for years.
All instinct.
No pause button.
Just motion and aftermath.
Chaos in a green and red swirl.
I used to write like that too.
Spitting pages out like they
owed me something.
Rushing the line
just to get to the next one.
If it didn’t come easily, I didn’t stretch.
Anger and sloth became me.
No patience for silence.
No patience for anything that didn’t
give something back right away.
Now I sit longer.
I let things bask in front of me.
See what they turn into
before I touch them.
Some days I don’t even reach.
Just watch it pass.
That used to feel like losing.
Now it feels like lived in wisdom.
Funny thing is—
you don’t end up with less.
You just stop bleeding for it.
I still want too much.
That hasn’t changed.
I just don’t take it all
in the same rush anymore.
And grace has given me more
than I could have engineered.
Apr 18
Apr 18, 2026 at 9:28 PM UTC
The silly minutes
rage by like a
falling cuckoo clock.
Dilapidated dreams are
bent and burnt like
autumn leaves.
**** the cliches.
Time hurts, like a
gaping wound.
Hold it close, and
value every precious
second.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 7:37 AM UTC
I met her and my mind ached.
Blue eyes hiding, brown hair falling
like a California mudslide.
I wanted to bathe in her
against my better judgment.
We found our rhythm on that windowsill,
the town sleeping beneath us,
our bodies at one with the dark.
Her tongue—a Beethoven symphony in G minor.
My face glittered in the moonlight
from the waltz with her thighs.
She was a mockingbird while my friend died—
soft, kind, a song borrowed
against a flat black world.
Then the threads unraveled.
Laughter turned sharp, then sharper.
Madness stitched a patchwork quilt
behind her eyes.
One day, she pulled over
on the highway,
ordered me out like trash,
then sped away
while I walked fifteen miles home
under puffy clouds
and a sky that didn’t care.
Neruda wouldn’t touch this.
Shakespeare might have—
if he liked cruelty in daylight.
I think of her on dead winter nights,
still beautiful, still dangerous—
bedbugs in the brain
******* at the brilliance.
I hope she finds a map
and doesn’t burn it.
I hope she finds her way
out of the forest
and into the light.
And I pray
that snails stay away from the salt,
and that tomorrow
the world smells like six-week-old puppies,
full of mother’s milk.
Apr 4
Apr 4, 2026 at 8:44 PM UTC
Coffee steams from the mug.
Fingers embrace, trembling—
logins lost again.
Screen freezes mid-thought.
Words vanish like dreams.
I sip, swear, sigh.
Cat’s chirp. Chaos paused.
Rain slithers on the glass.
Sleep echoes its promise.
Drag. Drop. Copy. Paste.
Undo. Redo. Repeat.
The world mocks the simple.
The protagonist gets lost,
wandering in error messages.
I just want a pen.
A stuffed bear on the floor.
Someone I can’t reach.
Someone I’d give the world.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 8:36 PM UTC