19 July, 2016


the flies will die

We will feel differently
from how we feel now

It’s not impossible
for memories to wilt,
found stiff, dusted over
in the corner of a room
when it’s gotten cold out

the flies die

Wilted revulsions,
We dust over

the flies will die

18 July, 2016


Not all love affairs are the size of
sweeping desert clouds,
sonnets dancing
next to the Sun

the rain is there
to force a change in tempo
and there is a murky
interview between giants

I forgot to practice that part,
somewhere between shadow
and light
Neither clouds nor rain nor sun
laugh here

I forgot to practice looking at clouds
before they bury passions,
collosal, with a deluge
somewhere between
shadow and light

John Carpenter Haiku

Horror is purple
This isn't vanilla twist!
Fate never changes

08 July, 2016


Take your ugliness out
Unhide it
Sew onto it my kiss

It is inside love
where I can most easily navigate
It is here where I know who I am

A torn map worn as a crown
Use my flesh as a guide for your stitch
Unhide old tangles

A cloak patched with kiss
It is in here, in love,
that I can protect

07 July, 2016

How Will Our Souls Look Then

When asked to explain to the aliens
who will have travelled from some ancient moon
to empirically define the human soul

Why we butcher one anothers’
sons, daughters, fathers, mothers

Why we cover the living magic we call green
with inert, plastic greys

Why we take what is not ours
and leave lukewarm puddles of oil and blood under our own feet
Why we defend ourselves against wretched words
written in fallible, old books, with creators of permanent ghosts

Why we have such wanton disrespect for love
and illogically poison our children with hatred

When asked to explain these things
without any god or chance or economy to distract
How will our souls look then?

06 July, 2016

Your memories of me

My lies are in a golden box
sitting at the bottom of the sea
All I can do now is pant
in the sun
wet and torn open by wolves,

There is no fear left
to protect my lost gazes,
your memories of me

05 July, 2016

We Are Cursed

What must we have done
to the gods
for them to curse us
with such violent need
to search for utopia

Even our skin is imperfect
and from time to time
stops stretching,
impolitely choking the body
without warning

There is no such thing
as a penitent human
it is unimportant whether or not
you strike back

If I am to be truthful, then yes,
I am ugly
What you see are pencil marks
dug too deeply for erasers
to forgive

We will always be willing
to drag each other, screaming
through mud and spines
We search
We are cursed