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

level up – 27th club

chalk it up to good luck

made it without mac

this is what he was afraid of

see what i am made of

i wish you could see what i became

you joined the club last week just walking knees

now it’s me survived on a breeze nowyour heart is at ease-

the man that i am- you would of hated it

you hated everything; but you would of thrown

a killer 27th club party

Poetry · Writing

with boba

standing- one

no- two hundred people

and where ever we go

i see their faces

dust on my tips traces

of their existence gone in a flash

and all we can do is spend a morning in mass

begging for safe passage

begging for safe travel

for them, right, or

to rid the guilt from those still existing,

those lucky to say i love you one last time,

and across the street, kids are laughing, having chai tea

with boba.

safe passage for an invisible gate keeper

and the steps are boba

Poetry · Writing

a lot

after you’ve lost your job and the world is crashing

what will you have;

when the night is swerving down the highway with a half empty glass

what will you have;

fresh off the books heading down the tunnel toward a chair and a needl

what will you have;

remembering those few days rowing down to the river with the kids

kids with a pole and some bait late in the evening with a catch

catch a memory the size of a tuna under moon before the long night

night, that night- we had it all

Poetry · Writing


tomorrow isn’t soon enough

the days grow long

and the nights extend past peak

and i am weak

sick of the weeks and the days

the hours taunt me from their straight arms dancing around in circles

frequent buzz and bling

and another thing

when tomorrow

finally decides to grace the dance floor

upon your heavenly earth

i’ll be your first dance

Poetry · Writing

late night massage

you’re hands are a blessing;

washing away the fear

tracing your fingers along my worries

pushing your thumbs deep into my anxiety

flowing away-

falling asleep in your grasp

an angel pulling a bow back back deep into my heart

chop chop and depression won’t raise his hands to you

never lay a hand on my honey

all over my back, warmed

holding the arrow

asleep with your hands

Poetry · Writing

gravey man

it’s done

fixed at the source, small knife

puddle gravey between my toes

and a smile peaking through the shadows

can hear a laugh a few blocks down

harrowing; sirens closing in but it’s the laugh

feet turn to glue on every pebble skating across cold bricks and the sound of tires shredding in a closing distance

and that laugh; closer and it echoes through my ears like the gravey man’s scream-

i(whose laughing at my pain)i

drop the knife and down to your knees

and they’re laughing

the women two stories up with her baby are laughing

and the man, two blocks down is standing there

with a knife

and my belly spills of gravey

and he laughs