May 15, 2017

At the fatal risk of corniness, here is a simple poem for mother’s day.

All living creatures seek
their own good. Parents seek
the good of their offspring.
Mothers actually give
their own flesh.

Mothers naturally love
their children, however
I think some natural things
do not come easily.


April 11, 2017

Desiring to be possessed,
I took the unused path and,
With purpose,
Toward a clearing strode
To wait for inspiration.

Alas, nothing has come of it
And I was only left
With my mere self.

Perpetual Motion

June 23, 2016

My eyes are always fixed
ahead of me

Running my whole life,
late for work,
needing to be somewhere else.

For once I look up–
above me,
buildings rushing past the sky.

A woman is paused
on the balcony,
clinging to the handrails

As the Earth is spinning
in the still, eternal sky.


Coming up

June 2, 2016

My mind returns to itself
As it dissolves

Just like a light unbroken
By a prism

I tried to compose myself,
A fractured psyche of many parts
Now disarranged
As self shades into itself.

The Uncertain Hour

May 27, 2016

The burning twilight
Blunted by the weight of heaven,
Condensed — a curtain

Now turned sepia
Dragging itself across the globe;
Fate so indistinct.

The angel of death
Hangs around these streets corners,
A poisonous gas.

Under a sun-dial
I haven’t seen its visage,
Features indistinct.


Continuation of Life

May 18, 2016

I spat on a shriveling worm

to lubricate it;

convulsing, it dove into

a flower-bed.


March 11, 2014

At a table of burnished wood;
The lifeless flesh of an organism
Beneath my paper
Held for a slower decay.

And at the moment she, to catch an eye
Lifts a smoothed ash arm,
Leaning to catch the light to
Capture an eye
In the bend of her side
I feel justified for my solipsism.

In her being–prior to sensation
And herself without desire–:
A great agency
Has grown somehow self-cognizant.
Its motive is pure.
It knows that it

Must never reach finality.
In every form assumed it diminishes
And halts.
In every form assumed.
But the agency is realized in the form of an  imperative
To carry forth and transfer its momentum.
Rolling through organisms, it spreads.

So the body hangs its weight on a burnished shoulder
As she leans,
A mannequin.

And I have also felt it at work in me.


October 6, 2013

I dreamt of a lifelong sigh gathering weight in time.
Inhaling and inhaling.

It passes through the reeds of a nameless landscape
And the sound sometimes reaches me.

Touching the lips, a sound
to fill with breath–and its gone.
Such nuances are disembodied from facts.
A different kind of memory.

But were it a place it would lose something;
Some things, reaching for them, are further.

For to turn backwards would be to return
To the end of the sigh
When the weight was released.

But I didn’t know it then.

Some things, trying to find them, are lost.

Rhetoric and Aesthetics

December 8, 2012

Speak less or speak not at all.
How to forget:
Compelling ignorance
In company or isolation?
All within the mind
Aesthetics hardly happen
Minus mindful poets
For the existentialist
And other such stock characters.
Who would bleed for money
Like an accident
To work off inspiration
For appearance’s sake
Except the longing author
Posed main character
Seeming so honest.

Hearts could be free without framework.
Forsake your format.

It’s not life until death

November 19, 2012

Foreknowledge would be bad enough. But I must taste in inbetween. As I gradually drift to sleep while trying to focus, I am less and less there and I wonder “to what degree will vagueries persist before they erode into a loss of meaning?” But carry on.

As a statue is known by its negative space, so is life known by death. It must be anticipated. But it’s not a matter of “life–until death.” We slip inbetween consciousness and unconsciousness periodically, perhaps between feeling and apathy, between brilliance and blank stares.

It sounds petty to despair over sleep, but it is nonetheless more wasting time. To live less than a century is a short time, but one forgets that a third of that is lying unconscious on a platform raised a few feet above ground. Or more. And even in the world of fully “being there,” precious little does one make action. Preconditioned autopilot: do as one does or you may draw attention. And perhaps the prevalent reason is simply the fact that nothing else would occur to you but to walk on the sidewalk.