The downward momentum is clear to me now.
The engine has built up a full head of steam.
I’d try to stop it, if I knew how.

The fires of industry must burn on somehow;
they tend to burn brightest when fuel is extreme.
The downward momentum is clear to me now.

When currents are surging, we shouldn’t allow
the jingoist fringe to swim in the mainstream.
I’d try to stop them, if I knew how.

Civility means more than I can avow,
but poems can only allude to a theme:
The downward momentum is clear to me now.

Each click of a mouse that shouts holier than thou
is a cog in a treacherous clockmaker’s scheme.
I’d try to stop him, if I knew how.

We worshipped the circuit and forsook the plow
in search of a false technological dream.
Our downward momentum is clear to me now.
I’d try to stop us, if I knew how.

There lies one in Rome
With whom all England was blest,
Whose bright star came home;

And if thou wouldst roam
To seek for all that is best,
There lies one in Rome

Beneath stately dome --
A spirit too young to rest,
Whose bright star came home

And whose living tome
Gifted the heavens their crest --
There lies one in Rome

O'er seas laced with foam,
Whose words still quicken our breast,
Whose bright star came home --

His name gleams as chrome,
Where water writ his bequest --
There lies one in Rome
Whose bright star came home.

Love is like a rose —
It hastens hearts a-tingling,
Tickles all your toes!

Friendships fade to throes
As hearts begin a-mingling —
Love is like a rose,

And each day it grows
It sets your nerves a-jingling,
Tickles all your toes!

Your skin brightly shows,
With blushing blood a-sizzling,
Love is like a rose!

It tweaks on your nose!
And sets the stars a-twinkling,
Tickles all your toes!

Do not fear for woes
Of love that ends a-dwindling —
Love is like a rose,
Tickles all your toes!

Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip.  
It’s the way that trying something new doesn’t feel like a monster with you.
It's letting the world have me, arms open, falling. Without censorship.


It’s breathing into the world, past the artificial growth of moist woodchips,  
And instead, to toppling trees and roaring forest fires that are sometimes considered overdue.
Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip.  


Sometimes things have to die to be made anew. Like an eclipse.
That’s how it feels with you.  
So new that I’m rhyming in my poetry. Like a horror story. . . without censorship.


Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip  
Or a framed portrait of a happy ending, but drawn only in baby blue.
I’m holding the feeling on my chest and watching you cradle it like a silk slip


Or a baby birds nest. You might drop it
And if you did, I wouldn’t blame you.  
That’s what unconditional feels like. Without censorship.


Mine turned yours, then turned sour, with every hour, spent split
And that empty void, of a screen, in between, everything you're deaf to.
The world gives me back, curled up and broken bit by bit.
Happiness is the touch of your fingertip on my bowed-out lip.

between the head and heart, you must reside
and carry on, regardless of the weight -
i hope you never see your worlds collide

if you can fight the emptiness inside
the battle's almost won, so close the gate;
between the head and heart, you must reside

it's tempting, yes, but you will be denied
from understanding, only left to hate
i hope you never see your worlds collide

discard the hunger, balance out the tide
you'll learn that dying lies in taking bait
between the head and heart, you must reside

and in you now, i know i must confide
there's so much strength in keeping in this state
i hope you never see your worlds collide

your twin-set mind, a natural divide
but you were always destined to create
between the head and heart, you must reside;
i hope you never see your worlds collide.

Genius is forged by passion
It is this which never dies:
Transcendental elation.

So long as one creation
is moved to dance mesmerized,
genius is forged by passion.

Though stone hearts lack expression,
postmoderns aching to try
transcendental elation

Keeping "plebes" from their "mansions."
Speak this opaque truth as lies:
Genius is forged by passion.

The hive mind *******,
at shared expense they deny
transcendental elation.

Our yearning adoration
causes heaven's voice to cry,
Genius is forged by passion!
Transcendental elation.

A Broken House

My house is broken, the windows cracked,
Don’t you see it falling apart right now?
I never said it was gonna be intact

The floorboards screaming, the books are stacked.
I won’t let my house fall apart, anyhow.
My house is broken, windows cracked.

The house is dying, having been ransacked.
It hardly comes back together, somehow.
I never said it was gonna be intact.

I jettison the bed in special act,
The walls cave in on me, just wow-o-wow.
My house is broken, windows cracked.

I allege my house has been attacked,
Still my house, hatred I will not allow.
My house is broken, windows cracked.
I never said it was gonna be intact.