Wednesday, August 17, 2016

200 dollars and heroic couplet

the grand c

it was like the grand c,

full of remembering

wider than the feeling
of wanting to make you laugh

i was walking around
under colorful banners
and the sky they celebrate

i had been reading the terry pratchett books,
the ones where death gets sick of being death

i imagined the ghost of you and me, 
sitting with me

you imagined floating over the city,
a heavy rain coming down

you could look below,
where the good people of new york
would open their umbrellas

i can see my life
as from a seaside cloud

memory is like a snowman

out past weight, everything floats

oh dark thirty and the ride #2  

we used to have a bag of bad guy
and spend all of our time with ghost stories, 
it was where terror was perfect,
like a Dracula never lost to a cupid,
bones were a sweetness, terror was belonging

there was a hideout for waiting, a down there to live,
stalking a night marsh like a crane in his cape,
making a curve like fins in black water,
it was a tunnels echo in earth, terror was easy

When you died I was on the other side of the world
I was riding in a plane, watching sun curve in from space and over water

Its strange being in a world, where as a skeleton
there is dancing, and as a body there is dying
becoming on satin, satin on frame, polished walnut, oak
the strange din of the device that lowers box
and leaves it beneath Sunday’s dew strung grass

Everything to me seems simple, games for kids, landfall of daylight;
And being is a story about ghosts, and a life becomes a bird of memory
terror is sound and sight, movement from night, morning,
And time’s feet come dancing up the stairs, smudging empty with the whole
Until it’s high June in Vermont and we’re riding in your car

You pick me up and drop me off, losing stations as you go,
Finding new ones, until being is like driving
Waving to the different people on the different porches,
The warmth of lawn chair and back yard, purpling dusk

I was looking out the window of the plane, wondering
If the earth, as it spins, remembers rise in places that are flat,
or light lost to caves, the friend in the story, draculas in time

Everything to me seems easy, a bag of bad guy,
a little bird yelling in its tree, the green bug lights over fields,
Where every night, new dresses come dancing out of churches,
games for kids, lawnmower on fields of new grass

Salt in water and light #5

You are my wife who plays golf and also hates me. If you took to sea it would be galleons, ships with three masts and a nest for the bird. If I set off in pursuit it would be in blow up raft. Waiting on the beach with crabs and Happy Kardon, wading in steam and fog horn. My wife who tees off on the sea green in Tahiti, Happy Kardon eating pickles in New Hampshire. Rocks are rocks until water makes them smooth, then you can go down, skip them over more water. Light in august is always so, like stained glass for the morning service. I’m looking out at watercolor places, where there are haloes on the heads of the golfers that set sail. If I followed armada with raft I’d have paddles, I’d look back and be pillars. To look at the ocean is to see horizon’s band, ribbon of void that speaks the rest. Gentle bend of planet, where somebody’s wife is sailing instead of golfing, golf balls lost to coral, castles for fish. Surface itself is a reason to lie down, Happy Kardon is on the blooming dunes. We all have a little more when we look. Happy loves places where they love ‘little spices’ and rose water. Friends are the people you love. To be brave is to repair to dingy and shove.

What it is is a bobbing, the troth is a crest, Happy’s wild shanty; My wife’s boats tiny in the wild blue of not loving me. One oar draws circles of ruin. We tangle in jellyfish and birds, doomed to sink off of the Barbary Coast. There are orbits of stars burning in atmosphere; there is celestial, there is Atlantic. Waysailing golf wife, I am paddling in your wake, hoping without foundation that one day, if I paddle and Happy rudders, we’ll end up where we are going.

I think everything is funny, I crack myself up, I was covered in these garbagey birds, remembering. It was like a pastoral love story told many years ago, when there was ground to stand on. Water that ran between it, where I could float a leaf boat down your brook. On your land I was bovine and lowing, companionable and nudging the fence where you trailed your hand. Wheat shimmies in wind, sun doesn’t castle. My wife’s calf-skin golfing glove, turning the gift and nuzzling its sides. Like how what means a lot to me doesnt mean much to you, but your footsteps are pictures of where you’ve been, and I’m coming round with frames. But everything that happens is always long ago in the end, and here Happy and I are covered in salt, what happens when you turn around. a cloud of gulls bombards and hope is coils, the sun sinks in salt and weight, ocean is a waltz for sound while we try to get there.

Our dingy gains velocity, bursts of seagulls and ghost crabs fly away, confetti of new year. We paddle in open seas, traipsing fog and sun, arriving in mouths of rivers where clam people throw us lobsters. We paddle through swamps and mud flats, Volgas, Niles and Yangzi’s until we tumble over the falls and die, perishing in body while spirit rafts on. We bob on placid lawns of cloud. 

The galleons of my golfing wife bound further away and I’ll never reach them, but there's nowhere I’d rather capsize than on the rising swells where I'm doomed to love you, as a dumb wave skipping on fathoms. i go rising and amassing speed, leaping like packs of joy dogs until i am broken on the rocks of your coast, ending formless and shattered, spinning dizzy pools around your shore. Force brings me out with tide, to float in currents free and boundless until I rise again in the middle of the sea and come running back on the same course to you, how salt is light like it is in water.

extremely 12

i wish i could go swimming
instead of dying in class

when i’m out of school,
 ill be walking home

it seems like everyone
is headed to chipotle in their cars

if i had a job,
thats what i'd be doing

jamie and jisu #13

love is like asking 
that little dog where he lives;
of course its in the house!

a castle in every night # 4

i know that happiness is careful
like trying to give a hug 
to someone who is sleeping

when it is raining outside,
you look in every window on the way

i love rockets for their outer space
and oil paint for when its thick

it was your birthday,
at the same restaurant as my birthday
but it's your birthday, 
i wanted to get you what you want

there are all the places i love to be,
the songs i want for singing, the feeling of cheerful

all things are only there to wish for

lights, you under them

Sunday, July 31, 2016



Getting over the stomach flu in the living room
looking at Delacroix and coloring in the back pages
holding the birds up in the air with our eyes only

the night full of clouds and rain, 
Dante at the island 
watching the dew burn off
Jerry Garcia plays virgil today

Drag racing time on highway number 9
look out the window for minutes
take whatever you can
looting the day in fear
only to stock the shelves of hope

as the sun moves west downtown. 

Monday, July 18, 2016



The fireflies all drained out
glow drips down the interstate
curse-ed be the big tree,
the big tree night light

where the coca-cola river 
turns to the sea
down by the miracle mall
where the courtesans fuck

she looked for me
I was crying with child
DeCherico style:
long shadows
long lashes 
days to turn out
turn up
fuck the burn
kiss the night
hold the ratings high
until the dishes done
watch it all on television
down at the town dump
next to the refrigerators 
refrigerator gator, 
gotta keep ‘em separated. 

delete some words
make it a good poem
put in some g’damn effort

rub my hair back
fuck the night back
get the kids in bed and smooch ‘em
kiss the day awake
fuck the sun up
set the west to pasture
the white moment
the black moment 
the way it feels like it’s ending
because in a way it is
it always is

I’m the bitch. 


In the room covered with flies and the old rug
it’s night and you want to get outside
but you have to stay in and talk

as I move from coast to coast
I watch my lifelines deplete
I feel your ghost holding my hand
touching my hair and rubbing my cheeks
“let’s start over, let’s start over, let’s start over”

walk with the innocence of a bird
put a lid on all the days that let you down
forget the time you crashed someone else’s car
light that money on fire and have some free time

the day when swimming would have worked
but instead you stayed in to finish the argument
it’s a small town day with little issues at stake
we’re watching grass grow in a way
the way we go about our lives,

waltzing Matilda. 

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

lake of treasures

day by day i know a little less
about what a life is worth

breaths you take have ghosts

much of life is like the end of the movie
when the frames freeze on the smiles
that we come to know so well

waking up to her letting go of your hand
walking around like 'what kind of world is this'

i can't stand to hear the voices, when they break

weight continues to impress
and out beyond there

the endless vista of my own cursed
and never ending life

people tell you you're so young, and maybe you are

diamonds and gold -- to live forever,

Tuesday, June 21, 2016



If you wanted to be specific
my soul’s cruise control
has the feeling of 
11:30pm in the parking lot
of Grand Union age 14
Piggly Wiggly age 17
Safeway parking lot 
any age thereafter.

It’s unheimlichkeit all day
Unheimlichkeit all night.

A teacher once described my presence in class
as the tarmac of an airport,
“you’re useful, you contribute,
people see you, but nobody knows you,
you are so close but distant, 
nobody ever touches you, do they?”

I took a second, the entire class froze, I think
I had just a moment earlier 
insulted the teacher’s idea of self-preservation, 
so to continue in form I said,
“well I guess in your analogy, 
paid employees of the organization 
get to touch me, so let me know when you’re ready.”

But still, I always relate more personally 
to a car parking lot than one for planes, 

call me Sentimental.

Thursday, June 9, 2016



Bob Dylan looking young in a window
I listen for your footsteps 
I hold an image of you close
we laughed about the strangest things

I see you again 
looking the same
feeling the same
time’s wet match
never actualizing
just punctuating 
the cold moments
with the truth 
of how close
death is

The candle moves slowly
down itself until it’s wasted
I synchronize to a new time-zone
and gaze slowly over the ceiling 
escaping nothing of my past 
secular or pious time-zones
it’s all the same in the end
why don’t we do it
in the rain. 


Share hands and count to ten
looking at the colors bouncing from his skin
looking at the sweat gather on his brow
the sweat gathering under his lip
his eyelashes closed reflect the spectrum 
sleeping upon me, gathering time together

We look out the car window and wonder
there’s so much for him, so little for me
nothing comes anew except for him
I’m the fountain of his youth
nothing giving to me anymore
now I’m a crop being harvested

eventually depleted
but for now focus 

on the bright spots. 

Friday, May 20, 2016



Hold my summer in like one day
the days get older and older
like a good song you’ve over listened
the song's not bad, you’re just exhausted. 

Memory holds less, 
details are beyond me
thinking about religion
thinking about secular dedication
thinking about having been smart
now just experienced and educated
it’s true I know more, I’m wiser
but I think it actually makes me sad
I’ve unlocked too many basements
the attics are empty and clean or boring. 

I look at our baby
I live through him now
he deserves the light
I thought it would be different
but it’s over for me
I’m fine with it
in fact I’m better than ever
happy as can be
raising a child

just like they said
and I didn’t understand
wise with time. 


I believe in the old church
playing twinkle twinkle

at twilight 

as the sparrows fly home
modernist pilots of the romantic past
living like I do

grieving the same way

the church holds steady
still in the night but light
do I want to enter, is it safe?

Is the church different from the museum?

We look like raw clay today
In the sun waiting for direction
wrapped in plastic, surrounded by tools. 

We feel like water in a well
waiting for something to move us
someone to wash us away

I miss the day today
I miss the night now
I won’t miss the morning
I won’t let it go again

heavy is a heart with loss

do you remember worrying about 
things that didn’t matter

it all goes away one day
a different day for everybody
but the same.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Travel Lodge


The sidewalk pitched like a roof
by roots from my favorite tree
like a woman talking to a man
beauty and truth breaking through

the motorcycle motorcade
looked like ants on a log
from the helicopter where
we smoked cigarettes and laughed
all the kids these days are pussies
pussies like a man with no woman

whatever you call it, all day driving
toward the desert, through the desert
no goal, whole ideas coming in and leaving
in the machine leaving a city feels good

I've never thought about a single cousin
unless my mom brought one of them up
I'm just thinking about the robotic dinosaurs
salt baths, wind power, and rain.

Friday, April 15, 2016

Souled America


She holed up all night
thinking how to make love
the cat on the pillow
the dog on the rug

break the body down
let the body go
ease the pain

kill the day

sing with her
in a slow fog

Laaa la la laaa
is this the life I want?
I used to be happy
I used to be clean
I had what I need
Now I have more
I’m unhappy
I’m dirty
I’m poor

cars collecting light
heating up inside
fuck the night
hate the street

shut the body down. 

Monday, March 28, 2016



The sun is tearing me apart, it's too much
all day sun on skin, swallowing me whole
it's the end of the road in a lot of ways
remembering happiness when I'm happy
just digging in the day for the past in present
the magic of childhood still real just
reality of life so false.

Then setting out to live like before
pure and simple, whimsy.

Reminding myself about mortality
to make my moments more alive
scaring myself shitless just
to remember how and why.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

computer scientist

hang fire slowed down on stereo with colin
the éspecial green of one's couch

don't cry duffy, its just music for cats

its just the favorites of grandpas,
and waiting for the bus

you find a fit for the last piece,
and the puzzle is still there on the table

you know

like the half-sunny roads where no cars go
i know what it is to realize, all a sudden,
that it happened long ago

it's like the house you might wait by in summer

her dappled white grey house off the field

being at the door, having no key

it is true of many boats
that there is no helm, or man at it
they hurry in measure with the current

i was never disappointed, i never knew i was waiting

i always knew a lilac grey of field,
standing by your car

a date with destiny

waiting for the time to come
to tell the story of you

time is what skips

Saturday, January 2, 2016



Waking up I think
the thing about turtles 
is their shell

I hold in my breath and forgive myself
I look to the end of the bed and forget
the new day is upon us without attachment
the dirty clothes on the floor are clean again

when asked what I was doing today
I thought of not answering
but did only so that silence 
wasn’t what I was doing and 
then I had to move and make sound

so with a swath of light still available outside
I pushed the door right ways out
appreciated my age and had several thoughts
about the capacity of life to prove its willingness 
to believe in everyone, neighbors and strangers

I marry my wife everyday for good luck
I lean in and kiss the morning face
I run my hands over longing quenched instantly
and the many responses of my day become who I am. 


The corner tattoo
by the eye or neck means more 
than the daytime dress


About the tree he grew up next to

it wasn’t the movement of leaves
that kept him awake, or the sound
it was the beauty and sadness of fall.

About the car in her driveway

it wasn’t the time spent waiting
the long evenings with television
the music of her daytime rarely
making an appearance at night
because it was just so lonely.

When we go to town and the 
landlord calls on our cell phone
from his landline, we think,
‘can we just leave it all behind?’

The tree and the car lean in and whisper


I drive a car

looking out the window
as much as possible

we hold hands in the car

in the bed 

“look” he said
“I can’t do nothing all day”

by all day he meant 
all the time

time is all

the space creeps in 

“you know?”

“Yes, we know”

we hold hands
we look at each other 

through the window
in the eyes
lenses don’t exist
the pane of glass don’t exist

we hold hands, “remember?”

the break from life comes only once
holiday season is a choice
death is a decision. 

she’s the dream of life
I’m the dream of life
I’m staying awake 
all the night
all the time

all for you. 

Wednesday, December 30, 2015



Listening to Ween
thinking of Nijinsky

“known for intensity and variety”

I am the sculptor of nothing
I could disappear and it doesn’t matter
the displacement would be small
less than the amount of water I’ll consume

It’s sad in the world of Frank Stanford
is it now not sad anywhere in anyone’s world?

I said of a friend to my wife
“you know he’s never had a mean thought”
I thought this might be true even
but I can’t imagine what this is like
and he’s been  so sad, so…

sometimes though, I can’t tell
if the reflection is on my side of the window
or the other


is the other the outside?


Trying to make a new Lola
sitting in a room and looking
the wall is a shadow of the window


those days on the plane
looking down over the arctic
following a river until it reaches a town
holding my breath until then

is it the feel or the ceremony?
is it the object or the soul?

looking around I could tell you
this room holds many days
but in any instant I’m alone

alone in the room with books
sophisticated days turn into 
lonely nights 

wink ;


You were looking for me
and I was looking to be seen

in the car with nicorette
nice day for music of any kind
the day a blank slate for the music
the gift of autumn is that it could be happy,
it could be sad, but it’s a perfect bed for feeling

waking up with leonard cohen
watching leaves fall with leonard
in the yard digging with leonard
sitting in the running car, with leonard. 

I think of myself then and there -
nobody cares at that moment about me
but they do now and then
and there with a man of solitude
now and then - that’s enough. 


Making commitments stick
think in the voice of a friend:

“What would who who do?”

Nothing. “Nothing.”

My spaceship takes long slow trips
over a universe that looks like a wet marsh
you look in and see turtles swimming
“those are the planets.”
“I’m preparing to become a father.”

“How?” You ask. 

I think like I’m on the spaceship
or better yet, like I’m on the train, 
I make voyages deep and clean
down memory lane. 

“I’m planting a garden, 
then I’m going to engage the soil
in a sandbox makeover.”

You’ll see the night like water
hold you with the animals below
they are kind and speak English
looking you over they smile
a turtle smile, frog smile, fish smile. 
They are sweet in a beautiful universe
with glistening moon water and night moss,
digging for something nice to say
to welcome you into existence. 

They say in unison, “now breathe.”


Look at the dog
stay sober

holding the match 
as long as you can
dropping the match

you develop out of this
watch the rain
feeling inspired like you wished for
the fictional guide to a boring city

“there’s nothing I wanna do,
but you could do all sorts of shit
if you want to.” 

make a solid tree turn color
in the way you close your eyes

in the way you close your eyes. 


Alex said, “Altruistic assholes”
(we were in the cafeteria full of linoleum)
I agreed, but it was 8th grade
so I had to go home and look it up in a book
I thought maybe I could be altruistic - on a good day
but I don’t want to be an asshole, it was confusing
but Alex was my best friend, and so I couldn’t be
he was talking about some jokers down the lane.
My whole definition of that word is clouded
I look it up a few times a year to check in
see if I’ve figured it out yet…

It’s always bothered me, why is it bad?
Or what’s the difference between caring about people
and being and altruistic asshole? 
Why did he put those two words together?
Is 8th grade education all it’s cracked up to be?
Was Jesus an asshole? 
Or just cool?
Is it “cruel to be cool”?
Or “cool to be cruel”?
Was I ever as smart as I thought I was?
What happened in school stays in school

stay quiet 
change the subject 
go home
spend your life figuring it out. 


Draw the highway out of my house
live the world down to dirt
think about the moon at camp
childhood as a dream that I can’t recall
the love of a day sober and clean
looking for turtles, sun going down over trees
the wind warm and the frogs loud
the moon is there, I just don’t know where. 


There’s no romanticism in Los Angeles
The sun betrays any chance of mystery,
it spotlights the despair and uniformity,
the ease of the day and lack of urgency
people drive, eat, sleep, have sex
all by the glow of a pale blue  

The moon rarely visits here
the rain avoids our hearts
no snow no snow

we can sing about beaches
about the pavement problems
but there’s no true love out here
it’s a hollow ground with surfaces
just make believe of the real dirt
the dark hair living up north
the heavy tears down south
all cleaned up for the next sunny day
looking for beauty in all the wrong places. 

Sunday, December 13, 2015



I believe in your mounting age
sweet jane flowing beneath the river
under water, back lit, a silhouette to all

Hey honey when will we all die? 
When does the day come when 
nostalgia is all over the place
running a rampant extinction 
upon the sentimental?

Oh lovely day in the air
it takes so long to wake up
distinguishing less between 
night and day
and more between 
love and loss. 


The drive is one we know
every curve a sentence said before
I turn over in bed again
I don’t think it really gets dark at night
anymore, anywhere. 

I see the movement of air in the trees
I catch a smell of honey in the wind
I know the days passing by
I almost collapse in this moment

All of us driving a road together
in the backseat taking turns asleep
making dates with destiny for you
and you and you too. 

If you could hold my hand visually
tears would appear in both our eyes
smiles on both faces
looking as we do
down the day

into night. 

Thursday, December 3, 2015

nick mann

when it is raining outside, you look in every window you pass
her friends were joking about their weddings in the future

it's her birthday at the restaurant with the food from my birthday

i love rockets for their outer space
and oil paint for when its thick

so often i have 0,
many people hate outer space
and are afraid of robots

when i am tired or unlaughing
she leans in from where she is
to check my eyes for their pupils

when a man comes out of the bathroom
i will go in,

i come back to this less and less,
the place i loved to be, the friendly of yesteryear

lads calling shotgun, screaming bloody murder,
the flask of levy hank, the man screaming
swamp trees whipping by the truck

i mean it when i say
it was all a dream
and it was the whitest coupe
and the shed behind a house
the bags spilling flowers and dirt

for everyone who knew me,
all things are only there to wish for,
lights, me under them

i hear rumors of all things' existence, 
noise from a room with closed doors

steam rising from the pot

my beautiful wife and her mummified wife, who is also me

my beautiful wife, a castle that waits in every night

i know that happiness is careful
like trying to give a hug to someone who is sleeping

when i go into the bathroom and look over my shoulder
and in the mirror
i will see the back
of some guy

it's her birthday, get her what she wants

Monday, October 26, 2015



Holding the knife sharp side in
considering different parts of the day
the day gone by, the day going by, the day to come. 

Night is just one thing. 

I’m tired a lot, thinking about animals
how they get up and go, or they sleep. 
I’m in-between this almost all the time,
wishing I was more awake, 
wishing I had more energy,
wishing I could sleep better,
wishing I could sleep more,
resenting sleep, resenting time. 

Time is a collection?
No, time is fleeting. 

Time is a connection?
No, time is disconnected.

Time heals all wounds?
No, time compounds events
until they are too heavy to carry. 

I hold on to whatever I can
I let go without willing any moment to cease
I’m a witness to my own being
I’m a witness to others' passing through space

the darkness and the light cancel each other out?

Hold on tighter. 

Thursday, July 23, 2015



I’m holding on really tight to every day
letting my heart beat right, running, exorcising
I put a bullet through the ground, deep down

we were laughing when I started crying
emotions are like this, all at once, or none at all
I see the Hudson River look like a lake and wink
I move my body through the water like a river

there were days once when I could swallow the sun
days once when the sun swallowed me
nights where I floated to the sky
nights where I sink like a bullet through the ground

birds by the thousands, millions maybe
migrate south every year, looking for vacation
but it’s a lot of work, it’s just life, there’s no real break
no break when you picture the big scheme of things
walking through the woods like the trees are people
like the city is full of trees, it doesn’t matter
putting cigarettes out on skin, the bird leaving the flock
shedding your layers that hide you, that protect you
I have all these scars, tough little images of pain

the pain I see, but the pain was mental.



In the south county seems there’s a way of talking
like, “I’m a relative of someone you know, aren’t I?”
But sometimes you don’t want to find out, do you?
Depends on what part they’re from, right?

Holding a cup of coffee like it is my world
walking outside like nobody’s quoted the morning light before,
has anyone looked at the ocean and said, “it’s my silent movie”?
have they watched the sugar maples sway and question their motives?

We look down at the soil then plant it full of garlic
thinking about the first time sex was on your mind
you were so wholesome then, before you became part of it
becoming part of nature’s the same, 
it’s in you and then you start to enter it 
you connect to it as you realize you’re ruining it.

I saw the man in the moon from Wyoming
then I got on the plane, I said “goodbye moon”. 
I can watch a day pass if I’m working and feel fine
but sometimes I do things all day in the city
it isn’t until the light fades that I feel my soul returning
I’d take midnight over noon any day;

in the mirror it’s not what you see in your eyes
it’s what you see through them.


When I attain total clarity
I will be driving a western road
the deeper I get in working 
the farther the mirror appears.

I was a tall tree, a flower
I was watching the moon leave
like a kid escaping to their room
hiding from the sun,
the light is the abuser
and a room is no place to hide.

There will always be allusions
the job isn’t to make more metaphor
it must be the opposite
stripping the vanities that hide reality
the markers of time run like the night.

but what is it the real problem in the end?
sleeping in when you weren’t up late?
thinking of all the hours of total loss
sleeping like a dog with no thoughts 
wasting it away because of total loss
looking out the window and the light means nothing
looking at the time and the time means nothing

feeling your body and feeling your time
feeling your own hands sifting through light. 

Saturday, July 18, 2015

adages pour like days days gone by in a second
lately lately lately there’s been an understanding
but one day we looked at the walls of an aged barn
haphazardly placed in the same field that harbors every image
of some young youth dealing with things
definitions of romance, to the witches

when the sun was perfectly not
when the wind was a chill dude and spoke of tornados
like a folkloric voice recalling family vacations
or gossiping about the drug addled second cousins

met one at a beer who came back from Tibet via Thailand
said it’s crazy over there raught neow
here’s an article, telling
of sad i felt
with pics of macs and monks

sat with a bottle while a stone’s throw down the street
i found a window smashed with a water meter cover
i like the idea of someone wanting my amassed beer rust
i like the idea of a child bored with the heat
tossing metal through glass

damn near ruined my life,
i thought in the moment,
that there damn near ruined my life

there’s time to speak of sympathy and politics
while damning the already damned
in that same field around the barn
where each boy draws breath
grass in his teeth
for the image
the folklore is decidedly tacky, decided the cowboyman,

looking on : i guess that’s what it’ll be from now on

Tuesday, July 14, 2015



Watching sweat drip down a strand of my own hair
I’m pleased to be happy when I am
but I don’t do things to be happy
I do it all for something else
it doesn’t make sense 
becoming a force.


This is who I am 
it’s what I’ve done
it’s who I’ve been
it’s what I’ll become. 

5 PM

The morning weakness 
the day weakness
the aquarium of night;
looking in on the day
you are traveling again
and this happens to me
whenever I’m alone
sailing away into 
every evening.


spinning as earth
descending as sun
with the angels who cry
loss heavy in each tear
we see eye to eye

kiss goodnight