Time slips silently,
gracefully, without warning.
And at times storming
through the vacant
lots of moments.
Once home to potential,
now up for rental.
So cold in the winter.
When does the young leave,
And the old enter?
Reckoning with
the recklessness
of youth turns
scars into truth,
passions into muse,
lost love into old news.
The heart heals and
reveals a new story.
Time is an alchemist,
Manifesting wisdom
from youths glory.

Oceans spills from
tear ducts
skin shimmers
salty.
Mosaic flashlight
plays shadow
puppets on
the empty portrait
hung for show.

Vanity and glamour
wander like
stick figures in
skinny jeans
collapsing
in a laundromat.
Soiled, in need of sorting.
Hand wash gentle.

The lizard with
a busted heat lamp
and empty fish tank
crawls over
salty rocks
and looks deadpan
into the weeping eye
of human shadow.

Cloaked in
organic philosophy
I sit
cross-legged
mind stretched
on the balcony.
Flute of the
ancients drifts
cleansing
the melancholy
tumbleweed
through sweet
sounds forward
calling me.
A candle guides
into bliss.
Reflections
of presence.
The flame of
what is.
Moments I own,
Or rent.
Passing like
landscape
through glass
in the passenger
car on this
mountain descent.
Claws of
the eagle soaring
grip my heart
without warning.
Grip slips,
dropped, split on
a rock in a field.
Heart opens
with cathartic feel.
Reveals another layer,
Peeled. Pain
of the beloved
Pleasure
when it heals. Back
To the breathe.
Inhale into infinity,
Exhale into death.
A chime reminds
me of time,
Refreshed.
My life
I resurrect!
Sunlight enters,
And I nod
in respect.

Winged sculptures
crash in a glass
avalanche
window
of fleeting muse.

Splintered cavities
bleed shadows
into patched auras.
A cloaked Christ
plaster cast
rides shotgun
on the spinning wheel.

conquered gravity
haunts crusaders
of crushed diamonds
crazy shining
in zig zag lines
of cocaines finest.

Bridge over bitter
waters roll
into broken buckets
down river
falls frozen,
shivered.

Catapult snaps
cracked
in half setting sun
wild spring rains
tamed
sent to asylum.
Home on the range.

I may need to rest here
The chill of wind and warmth of fire
together leave me wanting
to be free from time

My rucksack is full now
of sunsets and days spent
hitchhiking in search of the divine
I must unpack a while by the fire

This artifact I see in the light
is a map to where I sit
now in the cloak of shadows
and dancing yellow flames

Each trinket I have carried
for so long is the same
A journey in itself, a parable
all leading to this place

These clothes
in my suitcase
are another man’s.
I tried them on,
but they don’t fit.
Their stains
and patches
familiar, perhaps
from another life.
I check my baggage
at the gate
knowing
I won’t see it again.
Turning around
I run
to catch my flight.

I speak in
words
cremated,
scattered
with the ashes
of a
burning
cathedral.

My fathers
niche of combat
lingers
in brainwaves
bonded
and bleeding

A harp string
plucked
at birth
in a twilight frost
still humming
on the thawing
lawn

Fossils
of claws
dragging
tombstones
crumble
in petals
of the black rose
gifted

I washed my face
and I looked at my reflection
I thought about forgiveness
And connection
and how you hold on
to all my imperfections
I washed my face
and I looked at my reflection
I saw 5 o’clock shadow
and the resurrection
I thought about a beard and jesus
and how he seemed to find direction
I saw in my eyes a child
Looking for affection
I thought about fatherhood
and how I lack perfection
I washed my face
and saw in my reflection
A man with a vision
Blurred by his depression

Muddy waters of the coffee shop stirring
anxiety and fleeting caramel undertones.
Hipster sporting an iwatch lingers unforgiven.
Testimony on the too small table
a folded napkin soggy under one leg
but keeps the surface sturdy.
The barista a hidden genius, happy
to sweep floors and wash windows
with a wisdom tied tongue and golden mind.
A service dog tied to the bike rack stares
with purpose at the winding line
to caffeinated triumph over lack of drive.
And my foot taps to the beat of a song
I’ve never heard and hope to not again
as I write past the margins
in a tie dyed notebook cantilevered
over the edges of the sugar coated table

Death smells like roses
In an eternal garden
where I mend fences

Thick sweet notes
of buttermilk jazz,
riffs of cream rising
spilling over the glass.

The bass drops fat
in the cast iron pan.
Sizzling butter,
hot cakes and jam.

I crave the space
to come unleashed.

Rage the woodlands
bare soul and feet.

To shred the clothes
and masks I wear.

Let go the roles
and jobs undone

I crave to exist
Bare skin to sun.

The ancient call,
the beating drum.

One day, someday,
my freedom run.

Empress, heir to
the throne of longing.
Silk scarves in knots
Lioness cat walk
trespasses
the forbidden.
A soft ache
inches away.
Temptress of
fertile roots and
moistened petals.
The skillful pause
between worlds.
Breathe to breast
Let go and clench
Bleed with me
of blended scent.
We have not met.
This distance pulls
too close
to regret.

The wax pillar candle burns
slow as the breath deepens.
The witness ushers awareness in,
the dreamer no longer sleeping.

Concerns of little-mindedness
drift away like windswept clouds.
Rolls in the will to rise again,
and the choice to dream out loud.