The inebriation of exhalation as the wild beast burns it's gut.
A trampling hoof that guides aloof this creature's weathered foot.
Time again a gait that fails
the weathered engine derails.

The other follows, a steady pace,
pursuing subtly an unfamiliar face.
Their paths crossed not without reason
though looking now it cannot see them.
What past has taught the future taunts with,
its exhausting, this furious pursuit of treats.
It helps the creature to it's feet.

What east feeds, west shall feast on.

The water offered, soon enough gone.
And though the west one was defeated,
it smiles in gratitude, almost sweetly.
But deep inside, the fire burns
the lessons learned are lost
as winter comes with a hunger born of frost.

Binary beasts, slave to each other.
Two wayward children split from their mother.

kites riding the eastern breeze
inner child hiding in the canopy of leaves
singing to the tune of the birds
lies being highlighted by the omnipresent sun
bring to light what you buried, sweeter than my metaphorical cherry
you cannot escape what you have done, you must remember the ones you have shunned
even if it's only to take note of, what not to do
even if it feels too much, I know you could
even if the world is too rushed, you know what to do
going down the wormhole, deep dive
my memories come in handy, high five
to save my sanity as I live life
getting my light underneath the full moon

I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken
smells like a T.V dinner.

Demented
Was this evil
Witch
When she snatched girls from the
Streets
To havevthem sacrificed and
Possessed
By the jinn
When will she end her
Evil spree
Of taking innocence
And committing them
To Satan

After a year I took you to the Eastern Sierras. Home.

Last time I was here these mountains seemed bigger, in pictures my face was thinner.

Walking in my granfathers footsepts I spoke of my family, I spoke of these canyons, you spoke of your dreams, and you spoke of us.

Black coffee in our matching cups. You make it strong; like me I said.

With the high sierra granite surrounding us we removed our bandaids and wondered where the scars went.


Everyone knows a broken heart is blind. At least that's what Jack thought me. After pondering it for quite sometime I think that I would like to give you mine. I think you see me.

Crossing the eastern stream,
I met a friend.
His shell, hard as he slowly
traverse across the water.
Crouching down, I asked him.
Oh turtle, why do you move so slow,
Yet never stop inching forward?