Chestnut chickadees chirp on cheerfully

Outside my dabbled desert dormancy,

But it’s deathly quiet, still

In this house.


If this pith still pined

By that briny’s beach

You’d be in, in due time

Shoulder shrugged with ice cream.


These days have been so busy,

And so abysmally dragging;

A prasarita padottanasana

With my tongue splayed out my mouth.


I’ve opened derelict doors

To find familiar spirits…

The blessed light now grants me

Faces to put to their names.


I’ve no ordnances in which to contend them—

No inherent honor, no pureness incased in sterling.

A lifelong lesson etched into dusty stone,

But perhaps my heart will serve; much stronger than I know.


This affects me like we bore the same blood.

This stings me like we respire twin debris.

But it’s deathly quiet, still

In this house,


Beneath the stable unpredictability.


Sweet Dahlia

Native paint:

A hawkers gaze,

Our palms caught in the wire.

Stains so cold, so quick to space

From love, and from desire.

“You take your pick,

I’ll take mine.” This happens

Some of the time.

As the flesh twists,

It’s barred onto time,

From the gashes flows dahlia wine.

Of the moments you could leave;

Your hand is caught in mine.


It’s easy to let go when no one’s watching

 and watching

                           and watching

To just kind of fall back into the outer spaces of your mind

(something burning, stench of a landmine)

It’s then you begin to really wonder

All those people–

“You’re fine, you’re fine, no that’s normal…I promise.”

I can’t do it anymore (she says).

A dive to every cliff.

Eventually I’ll just pack up and drift.

You can’t keep everyone safe.

In 1995 Timothy McVeigh blew up the Murrah building, the question really was:

Does violence really change anything need to exist, if no one uses it?

“I thought it was terrible

that there were children

in the building.”

Nonessential Relief

In concern of living;

Waves crawl up my navel.

One foot in front of the other

I slip where ancient grains turn their heads.

And they say mountains do not change

Though I feel every vibrating molecule

Transforming the soft curve of the roadway.

This unsearchable place is miles from safe keeping.

Familiar feelings grow unfamiliar.

My organs play Romeo and Juliet;

They are love and I am dying.

Nonessential relief–

I follow as she walks into the ocean.

Our burdensome thoughts flicker about,

Alikened to a broken lighthouse,

While Hope goes sailing out.

The Lovely Idea of Too Much Time

She sorts laundry beneath the nauseous fan,

Draped in an unevenly cut dress of flowers,

In her lovers black racing socks,

“Do you remember when we first moved in and we thought it was cold here all the time?”

She asks, “And we were like, I don’t wanna pay for this SHIT!”

I tell her I remember with a smile,

and keep my head focused.

I still haven’t changed out of my towel,

This water-slide of hair traces my back

And I feel the drops cascading.

“Um no.”

She says to the radio

Shakes her head.

But I almost like that song.

It’s contagious.

Like the stomach flu

And empathy

Like smiling

And second hand smoke

Like singing

And various forms of rebirth.

Conversations with Sam

“But don’t you ever wonder why we’re here?”

“To smell the flowers and feel the sunshine.”

“But who says it is?”

“Who says it’s not? So why does it matter if you are?”

“But, what’s the reason?”

“I just gave you the reason and you didn’t like it.”

“Well I guess so.”

“The problem is feeling we NEED to do all of these things in life, as if to fulfill some kind of purpose to tell us why we’re here. The reality is to do the things you WANT to do in life while you’re here because they’re what you want to do while you’re here.”

“I like that, actually a lot better. My thought process is rather quite more dreadful.”

“Yeah I mean, and pretty anxiety provoking.”

Something went wrong, please reload.

I hold the arrow circle but nothing happens.

I can’t bare to write “I” anymore.

Is it because I feel like I’m doing all the talking?

Is it because I don’t let anyone else do the talking?

Is it because I’ve blocked everyone else out so that I’m alone with myself all of the time?

I’ve lost all empathy for everyone but myself, and even myself.

I’m bored with life.

Fantasies of escapism fill the walls up to the ceiling-

Unrealistic Supermen-

Places unknown-

Anything but this, anything but here.

He is hurt and I don’t care.

His head’s in a book; he’s really not there.

I’m way more proud, more excited, more dedicated than he is…

How’d that happen? How do I get out?

It’s too late to just get out and I know it…

So I just go on feeling easily hurt and unloved-

Picking out reasons it won’t work.

All I have to talk about is myself and I’m sick of it.

Sick of me. Sick of all of it. How do I get away from myself?

Is there really only one way out?

Dare I ever take it?

Okay fine;

You Win.

Game Over.

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