hovering
between two languages

light’s decay
must choose

its words
carefully

growling
in the distance

dark plumes
ruffle

the color
of the sea

out       side         in         in         side        out

when fear shakes
the breath from our lungs

when poison measures
too much

in the blood
how do we

return to center?
how do we

renew beauty?

I don’t know when I stopped
Seeking destruction
Or at least,
Stopped pursuing struggle
For the sake of overcoming
And instead
Sought destruction
Within myself.

Where did the spark go
That inner steel
That piece that searched for fire
In which to be forged?

I used to burn and chip away at my flaws
Working to expel all of my impurities
But I think I got carried away
And somehow too much of myself has gone.

When did I see joy
In what now gives only
Pain
When it overwhelms
I am primed to fly
Flight before fight
As my younger self would have done

Where did she go?
I must call her back
Maybe the clanging steel will ignite a fire
She can be persuaded to warm herself beside.

stray thought: hard earned wisdom

is there any other kind?

the easy come easy go kind
kinda never sticks around
long enough to make an
indentation just like facts
memorized for a school test
gone so quick you never truly
had them to keep, beyond the
inevitable ending by a bell ringing

the earning is hard, painful oft,
gained usually at great cost
which makes sense, long,
or even short,  created to be
savored, favored, and welcomed
every time it from recesses it
comes unconsciously summoned


but never confuse smarts
with wisdom,
snarts (snarky smarts)
can be obtained, purchased,
but wisdom is always
and only
    hard e a r n e d

The war ended before the bullets stopped,
but no one sent the message.
Men kept falling like punctuation marks
on a sentence that should have ended a page ago.

Someone raised a flag,
but the wind refused to play along.
A statue was built before the bodies cooled,
bronze hands holding a peace that never arrived.

The speeches were written in past tense,
but the guns hadn’t heard them yet.
Mothers set tables for ghosts,
chairs pulled out for sons who forgot the way home.

Silence was ordered at the eleventh hour,
but silence isn’t empty—it carries the weight
of words unsaid, of names unwritten,
of a salute that never came.

So they signed the papers,
folded the flags,
and agreed to remember,
knowing full well they wouldn’t.

This thought has always haunted me.

People you meet once
and never again in your life.

You have a static picture in your mind
of their face
the small conversation
their little story they tell you
the place you met them
in a bus, a shop, on the road
interactions not long
but meaningfully small
yet leaving a memory in you.

I think of all those people
I stopped by to ask for time
seek direction of my destination
or asking where I might find
food or a resting place
in an unfamiliar area.

Once and just once you meet them.

On a summer trip, I was looking for icecream
in a strange place off the highway
walked ten minutes to find a shop
where for that brief encounter
the seller made me feel like
he had known me for long
shared the history of that area
the migration and culture of the residents
before helping me with the right icecream.

Sometimes I wonder
if they would have enriched my life
were they part of my association.

Not scholars, not rich, but simple men
who bring you down to earth
and carve a space in your mindscape.

Sadly you meet them once in your life.

I feel it's so designed.

I chewed through the streets to find you

up & down the avenues of hope

my burning heart raged with fire
when you were there

and you were all that I wanted,
all that I cared for

you brought out the potential in me
when others had shown me the grave

you released my creative freedoms
when others had me incarcerated

all others before you were mere
throwaways, a simple practice
leading up to you

but when the lust had dried up
and my yearn for your thighs
still watered,

I still cared for only you

its when you became the exact opposite
of everything you’ve ever shown me

that’s when the love became scarce:

I could not stand the sight of you
I could not fathom what you’ve become
I could not grasp what lurked behind those fiery eyes

we were once aggressive lovers of dark bedrooms
and now passive strangers on blue-grey streets


and when we cross each other’s paths,
you fidget with your knick knacks
and watch your soap operas

so, I must go
out into the cold
where it is winter
where it is always winter
where the harsh winds sting
and the frost bites as the snow storms
back where my heart still rages on
in the streets I used to chew
through.

Boom.
No corners, no spine.
Flat letters, soft edges.

The pineapple floats because it forgot how to sink.
Trebek nods—final answer.
Mother Teresa blinks twice and folds into the wallpaper.

Nothing left but a doggle.
Sans serif.
Sans meaning.
Sans everything except the blorp.