constants

the voices in my head
purr their menaces,
they live only to wait for
elbow room;
a chance to tyrannize and
thrive on my trembling hands.

a chance to stifle my cries.

i tell them
to shut up.

they don’t hear me.

but while the garble
remains - flitting around my temples
like moths to a
discolored flame -

all I perceive
is
nothing.

faded luster (part one)

I don’t
know who you are;
I’ve never heard
your name.

I see you in hallways,
in crowds
in empty space
on stages
under ground
over air

floating upon
a sea of misconceptions;

always silent enough
that you could hear a blackbird’s feather
drop like a hailstone.

always perfect.

you waft
eyes closed
inches above the ground,
your crystalline form
trampled upon
and run through.


you were seen 
amongst others,
arrested by your disregard - of
them

somehow you remained
a solitary
red pinprick
on the map.

then around you
formed an
impenetrable
vacuum of their
discontent,

a flock of
kingfishers
ready to dive from
their perch.

their eyes
glitter from within
the murk.

memento mori

it does not end with the crackling
from the final groove of the record,
receding into the speakers
from whence it came.

it does not end with
the revelation that your mug
has a bottom, blemished
and scarred by streaks
of beige, and with tea
leaves you have somehow
managed to make stick to its surface.

it does not end
with Bacharach
when your dearest,
infuriated and foaming at the mouth
splinters him in half
upon her knee.

It does not end when the crowd
begins to disperse, leaving the cries of
dissent to gradually die down.

It does not end when
embers of a campfire can only linger,
a light in the middle of nowhere
that lit up your most
intimate conversation.

It does not end when your compulsion to shriek
is as fully charged
as your ability to fling paint
against whitewashed walls,
howling at nobody in particular,
"you are the world,
and you are my canvas!”

if it’s yours,
you have the right to call it
art.


it does not end
at the point in time
where you cannot make out
the horizon,
and all distances
are infinite.

it does not end in two dimensions;
a cartoon spray-painted
onto the castles in Heaven,
or when the silhouette of the racehorse
is on the verge of crossing the
finish line,
or the sea as it encroaches
its coast, with you watching
from above.

it does not end with a pause
in the laundry cycle,
or when all my photos of you
are lost to multiple cases
of arson,
hard drive crashes,
and repeated wallet theft.

It does not end with you;
when all remembrance of you has dispersed
into the ocean breeze,
gone astray like your musings,
recorded on cassette but disposed of
as the format is too “obsolete” for
its owner’s taste.

it does not end with me,
or with this poem’s conclusion
(nor its second half)
or when the time comes for the scrap of paper
it was written on to be
done away with.

truly, it is within our capacity to
feel
infinite
or as though we
are
the world,

but what i must hope for
is that once we
have withdrawn from
this hollow in the ground,

the world will
remember us;
not the other way around.

two ships at sea

the lilt
embeds itself
within your step;

a lull creeps
in,
mid-sentence.

the shame of
being at fault
prevents you from
staying standing.

the nautical
charts
said nothing of this;

it only reminded
us that whether
we are adrift

or united
by imperceptible
truths,

everything
is
temporary.

10 track album with tracks encompassing various styles of electronic.

personal faith

what’s the point of
having a life
when it’s not
even
yours?

my phone really spazzed out this time.

incandescent

her elegance
contradicts itself.

first its chilling
gaze commends my
tears of shame,

then removing all traces
with an elusive
smile;

one that instills
in me the will to
question any purpose
it could have:

to fill my lungs
with fervent disbelief,
or to clamp my mouth shut
emptying my mind
of its contents?

the gardener of _______

Bing sings
the great standards
behind my back

but he’s skipping,
back and forth and
back again

as his melodies
interconnect
so do our muses;

one day i want a home
that overlooks mother nature
personified by
mountain greenery

and ever so
still.

tomorrow i’ll start
my September
standing in the
rain;
then draw it to a
close

the same way.

above all
when his voice resounds
and rebounds
through the hall,

i am reminded that
life is composed
of the bridges
erected between
the islets of thought
and each of these
many minds.

some links are never forged
some are drowned by the weight of their self-obsession
and
some congregated thoughts
long outlive their
thinkers.

but even after the grandiosity
of my reverie,

i am startled out of it
as record
shifts,
shudders,

and the pitch of each voice
elevates to inconceivable
heights.

the din of each
note leaves its
foxhole,

caterwauling
with fervency,

all in
double
time.


still life

a rat buoys
down through the waterways,
effervescent,
carried by the
flow.

its neck not long
enough to glance upwards
at the transitory
moon,

its heart too weak
to permit its
scampering exit
into the rushes,
into the gloom;

it awaits
the fading of
the incandescent bulb
in the sky,

and with that

the light at the
end of
the channel.

the contract

count your roots -
then saw them in half.
be freed from
your earthly
limitations.

take your time to
be tall,
righteous, and worthy of
your name

and promise me
that you will never
let death’s caress
take you away
bedridden or collapsed
in a chair.

he is not
enough of a simpleton
to be
a gift for giving;

his name remains
only a
pledge of allegiance
to something we have
yet to understand.

desperation

it’s strange to think
how we culminate
as skeletons,
no more
impressive
than sticks and stones.

nonetheless, we manage
to meander undaunted
like snapping turtles
down the rapids;
and in some cases,
no one knows
where the current
ends.

meteors against the wind

You and I,
we tread
on dollar bills
toward the outlet
for this age
of possibilities.

The potential
of each notion
is all we need
to squirm
through this fortified
palisade of
sound
and plaster
its chromium finish.

It radiates revulsion,
wrapped, unassuming,
in ribbons
and an aura that says
only “get out
of my face.”

You would think
the next time could be the same,
but no;

once we permeate this
measureless boundary,
we won’t all be
here to cross
the overhang.

It’s difficult to
bet on yourself,
but tomorrow
you will need to.

goldeneye

sometimes
you forget how
to remember
and sometimes you
need to remember
which things you
want to
forget.