Archives for the month of: September, 2012

a good poem does not hesitate
and never pulls out
but rather
pulls you in
right up to that fleshy wall of what you knew and what is you and into something

no, a good poem does not lay you down
she wakes you up

for more
just as your soft eyes turn to cotton
and that last lash falls to skin

it jabs
a shoreline of crooked, edges

it burns white
turns fences to tinder
graffiti crawling hot up old buildings, a lashing of four letter words against eight cornered-doors
drives into signs that can never say what they mean to

she wakes you
from the inside

swears and cusses
stretching your lips
prying your eyes

it rides your spine
and melts your bones
you hang by your smile and die
a small death
but find the hands are not your own

a good poem is polygamous
a personal jesus

the hidden baby daddy to your immaculate conception

no gloves
a nomad with no reservations
no sexual preference

no, a good poem does not use protection
he touches with intention

a good poem is like a virus. it infects you. it multiplies in you. swarms. flows. if it intends to kill, it is a hunter only of extinct notions. apparitions. thoughts that no longer hold and have gained transparency. but more importantly. it intends to create. to stretch the small world in unimaginable ways. it flows through you. intangible as the seed that fed the universe. a good poem is far more than words, filed away. no, a good poem doesn’t lay. it burns, slow. and stays

September 2010 (Update October 2012)



entropy v2 4-1-2017



i had forgotten what i thought about entropy.

that. dissolving… grass to cold moon rock to space sand black hole whale krill and then what

or perhaps i was waiting for thoughts in the first place,

to balance the feel of that symmetry to evolution gas guzzling flora forming culture contouring context etching people text messaging rebounds off of earth metal thrust a home run’s reach

past Rumi’s smiles held long into laughter pulsing the way from a memory warming, a meditation on love

The growth of thought to form a thought on form, or the sun falling into grass fringed cracks in the sidewalk

Paving large tomes of history into religion into science meeting reality at an electrical level. Silos of shelves eddying off an AC current, reconverging in a soaked up skinned up stardust sea sponge’s parallel circuits, repairing and raising staircases of thought, basements and dens and abandoned cafe’s of it

All stored and priced for retrieval, prisoner to the laws of vending machine economy, convinced it is the house and not the backyard. Until the gardener kicks you out, for the smell of rotting plants and better things, and all your life’s begotten thoughts, return to their true meaning.

Born out of a out of a out of a hairy heritage. Into, growing, into a glowing. Throbbing into a million heartbeats mumbling into the ground honest as we grow older and coccoon ourselves into words and individualities so sure of a border, so houses come nations come planets come systems, already gone solar so longs still winking through the wrinkles…

while we’re getting old kicking up sand at the foothills, while motifs come crumbling down brown colored knowledge, in the hopes that a lip might lick up an echo

an echo that we were once fire, and mountains once moved, the earth’s blood was iron, and so was the moon

our memory is coiled into a bodiless string, being pulled to the notes that remind us to be. to be earth, then to breathe, to be earth, to breathe

and in between, sing

for we all return to that bodiless thing





Like a globed fruit

palpable and mute, it is


juicy in my mind

spreading like sunlight spreading

like fermented wine

laughing the mountains

for spinning so slow when the

seasons come and go

charming rows of chance

dandelion hopes, and sparks

underlying thought*

*we are Electric.

so why are we tip-toed and

tumbling? instead of

laughing down the mountain

***First stanza borrows from Ars Poetica, by Archibald Macleish***


just how light

last edit: 4/11/2018

so lost and dropped
right on my head
and right through glass
and falling fast

shrinking just
to fit
on broken shards of slowed down sand
and gathering
each piece of past

establishing a plot of land
a crooked chair
of misconceptions
running on
a humbled engine

watching pterodactyl angels fly

and looking up a churning of light and dreams
slanted, refracted
from the current

as i sit here
wondering and was’ing
while up there are fatherless futures with sinewless features
will never be, so long as i look and not lead

see chasing planes i cannot catch

more accustomed to the rumbling of the tracks
the whistle high sighs its low goodbye
the grass grows warm and two vines
arch and join and bloom
then twist and cage and rose entomb
and hoop around and hold a child
before a head could yet appear
and suddenly i know
the length of the sky
and why

i am here:

time limit

I’m going to die

I am going to die, and
i know that

‘m going to. but why

tie knots and not just
freely forward
treasure the line
each inching twist of twine, a rolling roiling thought boiling backwards, feeding towards
an answer
that speaks for itself
and sinks into time



Link to poem:

freedom is


between my tethered dreams
and creased by repercussions
closed my eyes
and flipped my mind…

and in that vast land of inside sensations
soft rolls of mental pink

soaked in the

warm sun’s cries
of laughter

collecting into


and in this world
where all is all, and all is “and”
and new clouds bud
from clots of land

and all is “and”
a thousand cups
surrounding me


did not mind it
as the feeling spread

as the shoreline smoothed

along the bursts of hot sunlight
around feet dug in tethered dreams,
warm trails
weaving, buzzing before my eyes
and clenched the pool of hot, bright…

and filled in words
   that sounded like

“everything is going to be alright”