I am blind folded.
Walking down a path I have never seen.

Each step reassured by
the voices that tell me the road is clear.

No pitfalls, no obstacles
no trespasses, no traps.

And so, convinced by these noises,
stirring in my head

I continue to step
ever forward into the black.

are you okay? is a question
whose answer is not dictated by me.

The answer is always
at this exact moment it would seem so.

For this instant, ever fleeting
solid ground appears to be where I stand.

The infinite amount of time
in between those instants

are another story
that I am unable to tell.

I drove for ten hours out of the last 36.

Something about those 300 miles made it seem like we would never come back.
I saw more in that garden level apartment than in the wild of Yosemite.
We were intoxicated by the city. Filled with wishes and dreams…and *****.
"I never want to leave." and I think a part never will.
One more place to call to us.

It rained through the halls.
Over door thresholds and under Christmas tree lights it spilled.
Funny how the sun light changes things.
Like picking up a full glass to find it's half empty.
Something expected to have weight is blown away by the wind.

26 hours have never held more until now.

We aim to live.
We seek to exist in a greater capacity.

Shed our blood and cry our tears.
**** **** ****.
Lie and steal.
Love and lose.
Betray and keep our selves.

How far we go to say we are alive.
Dig dig dig.
Energy from what we claim as our own.
Friends and lovers to make the steam.

When we are high:
Yell and shout
proclaim and promise
give give give.
My structure is yours.

When we are deep:
Yell and shout
withdraw and dodge
take.
At least I've only lost myself.

How many head for the heavens?
How many survive the lack of air
the awe of epiphany
the fall to crushing ground.

How many stay rooted?
How many survive the nagging thoughts
the what could haves
the weight of compressing regret.

Look at how far we go to say we are alive.

There is nothing we can do at all
to indemnify our weary souls and hearts
against the first love of a reconstructed us.

That one speck in trillions becomes the universe
and we can ignore the burning warning
in our scared skin and strained corneas.

Shelters built for bruised bodies
refuge for split, shattered souls
tires in its use like veins sick of medicine.

Still we are falling again and again
into ragging red and yellow fury
into endless gaping oblivion.

Until deepest depths no longer crush
and sky haven heights no longer suffocate
we shall risk the ravages of hope.

Fight your demons.

Thrash
Slash
Raze and burn.

Salt the earth.
Foul the water.
Set the fields ablaze.
Cave the roads and bridges.

Give no quarter,
show no mercy.
This is not an adversary of ration.
This is not a passing wind.

Destroy what feeds them.
Lay traps in the shelters.
Let the last strain perish
as they beg for shade from the sun.

They call for blood
so answer with their own.
Their teeth rasp at bone
so dull them with iron will.

You will not be silenced.
Deafen them with the weight
of your words like the cosmos
pressing on an insect not worth your time.

Their claws will hack
at your shins to loose your footing.
But they have cut one too many times
to be allowed tolerance from your momentum.

Wind you carry behind you
will strip their eyes from their sockets.
You have stepped forward too many times
for them to stop you now.

Every sun risen and set
is another shadow banished.
The numbers continue to swing
in your favor as they fall.

So fell them like poisoned forests.
Ashes rise to the sky.
Speckles piercing the nightly veil
that count your glory.

The whole 9 yards are a million.
The crest of the hill is high.
The last leg is long.
But it is not beyond you.


Fight
         Fight
                  Fight

Meet me before the sun comes up.
Before that ball of hydrogen dissolves,

what ever fog led us here in the night.

You spoke and wept and yelled.
The mist offered a chance
to see into your gaurded depths.

We found disclosure in the bottom

of a bottle again, but in the day

we’re distant for the knowledge.

I've never been addicted to anything.
A couch and a beer is home with you.
Cigarillo smoke is better when shared.

But I've never been addicted to anything.
Your skin electrifies my senses.
I hallucinate your voice when my mind is free.

Well… I can quit when ever I want.
Your lips make me shake at night.
Your eyes give me the nods.

I just don’t want to right now.
I’ll fight all the demons
for another bowl of you.

Anything, anything for another hit.
Your curves are crystal.
Your smile is nicotine.  

I've never been addicted to anything.
But my mind is full of the thought
of what cold turkey would do to me.

I thought I knew where I could always find happiness. I thought my supply lines secure and my suppliers faithful. Small plants and large factories I thought I had, winding rivers and sprawling roads I thought I could count on.

In a few measly hours I lost 45% and I had no idea it was coming. The factories burned and the roads melted while the rivers dried up. I'm sure you will rebuild and the routes will open again "You're business is important to us" you'll tell me while your in the proper mood. But the damage to my confidence in your business model will take much more to repair.

Someone else simply offered you better payment and suddenly I didn't exist and you left your/my infrastructure to rot and die. The stench will take a while to fade and the scars even longer.

But the ******* funny thing is that over the course of me writing this short story I have already forgiven you. ****, I'd pay more for less service if it meant that I get to tell the board members that I kept at least one supplier from running off this ******* quarter.

So congratulations, you ******* got me.

You pressed your lips on to his like it was nothing.
Then cried into his shoulder like it meant everything.
Now my car is full of ash and smoke
because no one bothered to open a window.

It still smells of mud and dew from the grass
that was above the stone that I made a promise to.
It felt like a ghost followed us home
but only because he was curious about what everything had become.
I helped her up the stairs easy enough
and I was even able to carry you to bed.

I learned so much that windy, rainy night
and just like that ghost I am bound to silence.

Certainly I can't offer
a reasonable return
for any time you may spend
on such a thing as me.

If I knew me then
and I could speak to those ears
I would advise against
the things I offer to you.

But alas, against better
judgement based on 'then me'
and 'now you'
I pursue with blind ambition.

I'll hold your hand and kiss your lips
like I meant too, all the while
convincing myself that the four years
you have yet to have are not important.

I'd like to love you
like I meant to love
the loves I had before,
and prove wrong my own hindsight.

But if you're like me,
you will take the 48
months to learn
and I will be unable to keep up.

I can build a house on air
and craft perpetual motion.
I'm at least willing
to try to prove me wrong.

To choose a place to place your final wish.

Where death is a closer friend.
You touched the door to the other side.
The **** beckoned, like you didn’t expect.
Your shadows gave you the key.

It’s real. You know it better than most.
The most real the idea has ever been.
But you threw off the covers
and pulled the needles from your veins.
The visage came and went
like our copies in the days sun.

It burned a hole in the fabric of us
like a meteor in the heavens.

Skipping, dancing lines define
alive, as if that could suffice.
That bed made your last beat
something to strive to prolong.
A place to place your final wish.

Wish, kiss, miss, resist, persist.
Grieve, leave, heave.
Alive.

It's not sadness
or hate,
resentment,
or regret.

It's empty;
closing your
hand around
something gone.

Empty doesn't
have a remedy;
everything falls
but doesn't land.

A migrane
whose temples
you can even
rub in futility.

Pain in phantom,
sourced from
a limb severed
out of foolishness.

I’m wearing the sweatshirt you cried in
and I laugh to myself as I imagine you apologizing
for the salt stains on the cuff.

I’d say I forgive you,
like it was actually something
needing to be forgiven.

And maybe you’d believe me this time.
Small steps.

And maybe you’ll believe me next time.
Proper goals.

Life is scary. You know?

Not the kind of scary you get from horror movies or a haunted house.
Not the kind of scary like when you think you forgot your keys locked in the car.
Not the kind of scary like when you think one of your friends finally decided to leave this world for good.
Not the kind of scary that is sharp needle point followed by the release of realization.

No.
Life is not that kind of scary.

It's the kind of scary that follows you closely.
It's the kind of scary that shakes you awake at night just to let you stare back at its void.
It's the kind of scary that sits on your shoulder and taunts you for every waking second that it can take you when it pleases.
It's the kind of scary that pulls your blood from your arteries.
It's the kind of scary that revels in the sight of your tears.

It's the kind of scary that lingers, persists, torments, and never, ever leaves.

EVERYONE! Last February I took part in a gathering of visual, musical, and written artists with a wonderful collective called Err. This Twin Cities based collective gathers artists from all over and puts on shows showcasing every person in one night.

Over the past two years they have showcased 100 artists and now we, all together, are publishing an anthology of our work. Each artist has submitted one piece to be included in the book but now we need your help to make it a reality. We have started a campaign on Kickstarter to get our project off the ground.

We are at the half way point but we still need help. Everyone on this site has been amazingly supportive of my work and if you are at all able; anything you can give is beyond immensely appreciated.

Please check out our campaign page and, if you are moved by our efforts, consider donating.

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/391424492/err-volume-i?ref=user_menu

I thought that I lost my heart today.
I reached out to feel it and it wasn't the same.

Like a pocket that usually is full of change
it's easy to notice when it's not there.

But it was there all along
it was just light, light as air.

I had become so used to carrying
around this heart full of metal and gloom

that when it vacated my chest
I felt like nothing was there at all.

Like sleeping on a couch for weeks
you forget what it's like to have a bed.

You forget what it's like to smile
when your head hits your own pillow

and what its like to laugh
just because you're alive.

I’m tired of this world.
My dreams and day thinkings offer rays of jubilation, but then I wake up.
I realize the sun’s light doesn't excite me
and the moon’s beaming doesn't move me.
It’s my fault.
Through my own failures I have tainted things that once gave me joy.
I have tarnished silver and gold
And they no longer spark my life.

There's something about wearing your PJs out to see the same eyes
that the night before saw orchestrated looks.
Tussled messes are shared upon our heads.
You braid the strands a few times and I try to make my hand a sufficient comb.

Coffee sipped on lips still tasting
of ***** and rolls of tobacco.
Sun drank on sleepy eyes.
Drizzle consumed on skin still smokey from the fire.

All the same, from cuffed sleeves and cologne.
All the same, from winged eyes and that skirt you wear so well.
The smiles, laughs, and embraces.
The sighs, support, and reassurings ring the same.

There's something about how we look.
How we look at each other the morning after,
That speaks louder than the shots and lyrics
we mouth so enthusiastically.

We stepped out of that skin
but we are still met
"There you are!"
and never "Where did 'that' you go?"

It's winter again.

Bustling malls
and second thought decisions
lead to some coffee comfort in the cold.

Whipped cream
and twelve strings
keep us mesmerized as the wind blows.

Lucky lasts
and cracked windows
as we sing our renditions to the sky.

The sun sets
before the good day is over
the dark will hold smiles.

All the pieces
fit perfectly in place.
These people; perfection and stories.

The cold this year
doesn't seem so harsh
and not so long as before.

I wanted to write a poem for you
but I found I couldn't any longer.

My body shivered from the heat of the water as I nervously awaited the words the would slice me up and build me down.
You cut and sutured all in one move of your hand.
It was the last thing I exactly needed
and I thought I had died and stayed on earth.

I love you
and you love me.

But I love like thunder and lightning
and you love like the calm before the storm.

You are waiting for the call
and I yell to you once you’re already gone.

I want to be deep in the woods
and lay you down in the greenest depths
that hold quiet for now.
But soon calls, cries, and roars
will determine this territory ours.

The forest is not an easy place
for the mere humans we are in this instant
to establish. But our fervor is unmatched.
Crushed leaves and shattered limbs
speak testament to our deeds.

The clouds close the sky
but neither lightning or thunder
dare approach us here
for how could simple light and noise
hope to stand against this force of nature.

Rain pours from unreachable heights
as if it were to quench the heat;
as if it fears for the trees and soil.
We will not be abated yet
our geminated critical mass, relentless.

In the end the skies have had enough
and the earth is cool again.
Stars on your sighing released skin
and the moonlight plays on mine.
Deep in the forest green, the outside world unseen.

Time

In more ways than one.
Some lives cut short.
And so many more
minutes rendered cold.

I haven't seen people I love
for longer than I really know.
Maybe I'm afraid to put a number
on the days squandered.

Could you weigh the hours?
At this point surely you could.
There are too many to not feel
the weight of them crashing down.

How do we justify what it cost
when disaster befell so many anyway?
A mask worn/a life saved.
Sure, of course, gladly.

Fear

What did it take, really?
For so long we sat
in front of a mirror with nothing to do;
did we notice anything?

Did we come out of the tunnel
the same as when we entered?
Do we even posses the capability
to know who we were?

Which would be more horrifying
in retrospect.
To know our past self's death?
Or to see not even catastrophe changed you?

If I ever see
those in my heart's eye again
will I be able to spend the time
in a way deserving of theirs?

Will I show the wait was worth it?
Will I recognize them and them me?
Do you gain anything from knowing the question
and not the answer?

Is there any way to make it back.
Is there any way to even slightly reclaim.
Is there hope?
Is there hope...?

Like water you beat
and you crashed
hoping to hollow me
and that I'd finally relent.

You wanted a cave.
Empty for you to fill,
although still holding
some structure to protect.

But you did not seem
to understand at all.
Or at least
you failed to notice.

My walls collapsed too
down down, and crumble
instead of a shelter
you only got sand.

But sand, sand is a beach
and a beach is not so bad.
You come and wash upon me
still influenced me like you meant.

However again you did not notice,
or at least did not seem to care.
Even sand wears thin
even sand grows tired.

You bashed and battered
hoping I would see.
But now everything is
under your sight line.

You would not hear
your own ferocity
and you could not hear
me over the roar of waves.

And so we are quite now
all my bonds shattered
and nothing left
for you to crash against.

The rain wears on
your limestone skin
as umbrellas are held
off your center by granite others.

I extend a hand
as if you weren't 20 miles deep.
Advertise a cure
and deliver smoke to gasping lungs under the guise.

In this tenebrific atmosphere
I claim to be brave while clinging to my torch.
Endless succorance performed
and answers given from behind glass and across telephone lines.

I only know of the place
where the pace is kept
to the time of constant mizzle.
Perhaps I could spot it on a map, from far away.

How is one in the Fourth
to help another in the Third?
Folly to believe I could stop the bleeding.
Laughable when the scarless comment on how to suture.

I was just floating about this universe,
direction so tedious, purpose so heavy.
I'll do something after I've seen everything.

I didn't leave like you're worried I would.
I just went somewhere else.
The navigating stars didn’t change, I just see mine differently.


The chains were so heavy and everything is just specks of nothing,
funny the weight that insignificance can carry
when hindsight fills our vision.

Beyond describes too far away from this place.
coordinates speak too close to my own tongue.
I'd show you on a chart, but oh cardinals do love to fly.

What is there in all these atoms anyway?
Such beauty held in piles of stars turned to ash,
When there is such vastness I do not yet know.

Kicked to the curb
all dust and water and ash.

Passed over easily
not worth the time to step on.

Best of people
fail to offer your satisfaction.

*** drive takes over
and promises more than one release.

Its like you finally
picked a scab that was itching

and without a glance
cast it to decay.

You expect to bleed
and for that bond to come back.

Eventually only scar
tissue will be left;

is a reminder enough
to replace us?

We bleed as well
when you cut our sternum

and wiggle our ribs
to rip out what you want.

You choose to bleed
and we come for more abuse.

Whose marrow will
give in to the end coming?