Poetry · Writing


I have to write.

I stare at this blank page

and it stares back

taunts me.

It feeds off me

like a leech it

feast on my fears for breakfast

and sips my anxiety like tea.

Never satisfied

until I write.

So here I sit

Staring through this open window

waiting for the magic.

From a home I can’t explain

neighbor of imagination

down the block from love

Or is it hate.

Next to the house that always cooks barbecue.

That smell that sweeps the block

through open windows

love hate relationship with your belly

as it fights for something more.

Yet, here I sit

waiting for the magic.

Watching this orange fuck

slowly crush our stars

gathering Universal’s Minions

calling himself Gru

wasting on a par 4

stealing candy from unborn babies

from the home that he

is burning to the ground.

Closing our window

after only a few months



Need to-

Look for the magic.

Gather fingertips

the window is still open


Don’t fly

We still have to fight.


Here I stand.


silent page.

Starting at the open window.

Needing to make humans think

think twice

and tell them a lie

that this window

Will always be open.

Poetry · Writing

the day before yesterday

Planning for the future

with a hammer

and a couple nails.

It’s a joke

I know

but it’s the truth.

The nails are a bit rusted

felt like I should mention that.

Bent too.

Head to Home Depot

to have your card rejected

but find a two by four

on the way home.


Buddy said she had

some parts for me,

pity screw.

Looking up already,

call it a note worthy day.


Poetry · Writing


The black panther lives in the rainforest.

This is the home of Faith.

The promising work of a florist.

Home forever even as a wraith.


Enchanting the world with sunny kisses.

Always with you like a reprise.

True nature’s cheery missus.

In spring time, love is carried on the breeze.


Her beauty undeniable by all.

All wanted to see what she could achieve.

Impossible to foresee thee befall.

This panther bows as she takes her leave.


All panthers ache and weep.

Rest now in your beauty sleep.


Poetry · Writing


i want to believe-

believe that today and the next are not a patch of air floating between my fingers

that your hands feel something real and not a figure of my imagination

is this- me

i can see what is real but it slips through my fingers

chasing like a dream i will fall through

ghosts of days i want to forget haunt the ones that i need to remember

is this- me

giving up like a dream i don’t know what is real anymore

maybe will buy a firehouse

make a dream of this nightmare

Poetry · Writing

aqua green

i never wanted to believe there was someone like you

it was easier not to-

to focus on breathing but not living

it was easier to see roads that came to an end

easier to plan for the next few months

to shorten the lines

but here i am wondering which shirt i should wear to match your eyes-

it was easier not to worry

now i can’t imagine it any other way

Poetry · Writing


fighting-  you are way above my level

just joined the game and you’re a grandmaster

to avoid disaster i need to be better faster

hold on just a little longer-

i can catch up

can’t learn to be a goddess

but i can learn to look into the sun-

this server; you let me in

against all odd calling in the will

of a grandmaster

Poetry · Writing

silver key

yielding at gates

crossing would be the end-

watching from the window

chariots and kids screaming with bows and bows

gods feeding horses

thunder storms at the tips of fingers

the heat of the furnace lingers:

crossing would be the end-

pleasure on a patterned plate

love on patterned sheets

sleets of snow below my feet

and now i am yielded at the gates-

watching kids play with bows and bows

and i see the end in bright lights

a silver key in my left and the lock in my right


i don’t belong

banana loaf as tribute

might as well be mud pie

for tribute to a god


Poetry · Writing

trouble wall

trouble is i’ve avoided the trouble for so long i can’t remember when the trouble was at my front door

trouble is i hate the trouble

trouble is that last one was a lie

i never use to be this way

trouble is now that i want the trouble all the trouble that i have put to the side

has come back


trouble doesn’t seem so troubling with you

you make the trouble feel like a box that we can step on together

and i can see the trouble

was only something that stood here- until you got here

Poetry · Writing


i question you

your existence your plans your methods

which books you open when you have your own question

who answers your calls when you feel lost

do you feel mortal anxiety- depression

do you eat ice cream and watch twenty-seven dresses

to forget how she use to wear all those dresses-

do you ever wish, you could be us:

live, bleed, and die

do you ever wish we’d forget your number

so the line would be silent so you can catch up on game of thrones

do you paint on your spare time

smoke cook fuck read on your spare time

or is it just us