Wednesday, December 31, 2014


I get tired of hope;
Smile: clenching my lips split,
Chapped cynicism drips.
A lemon squeezed — face screws against reality,
Obdurate, turning bitter.
Rice jar of positive intention molders sooner than the next.

Do you have enough energy to make hope real?
My back broke heaving the thick clay out of the river to keep my flow,
But on the bank it runs back down in the rain.

"But what shall I do?"
Pleading, I ask the deaf beyond.
And you may ask, "To which "beyond" I address?"
This one, with few eyes — a vestige of a once fervent platform.
The nothing that is my own silent speaking.

And with these thoughts in the dusty corner of forget, I hope to forge something that may endure beyond my waste. A straggly sentence without the pretense of enjambment and too forward for polite company; an aside screaming my intent — too "on the nose" and badly written.

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Thursday, August 2, 2012

28 September 2011

This morning, in the rain, your death pulled my sinus dry though no tears to shed as a slow mourning dries the emotion of loss - evaporating - it just crumbles... dust to collect against the empty memories left unswept. My most detailed memory of you is when I was six; a background to times deemed banal. You have diminished like your mind wrung dry, a prelude to my inevitable demise. But isn't it always about the self - truly detached from an earlier generation the unmoored roots of aging.

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Saturday, November 5, 2011

An evening with MMW

Maneuvers of the present moment A thought to cannibalize the containment of rapt being Her hand soft over the weeks stubble Turquoise growing black Flowers wrapping What did you say inquisitive eyes?


Saturday, September 3, 2011


I heard a crow in the late summer coolness
A dry resonance under the thick clouds
A dim reminder of the heat we wore thick for too long
A dim day which follows an evening whose taste bitters on the tongue
What is it that I hope for wringing my hands raw?

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Optimization is always short sighted

Televisions overlap in disparate discourse
"What is the point of this projected purpose?"
The evening light fading as the humidity slackens a rope not yet let loose
We crouch inside from the heat or is it the mosquitoes laying siege to our indefensible positions Clouds mill in the sky
They say it shall rain this evening on the heels of pressure from the arid south



The day blossoms out
And into the hazy twilight
The sky drops its modesty
At the sun's inviting gaze
The unblemished skin flowing out
Of night's dark veil


Saturday, June 11, 2011

Storm (06.08.2011)

The storm finally rolled in after days of heat.
"Its been building for a while now", the old work man says with a squint.
- one system to replace another.

tunneled desires digging in our rank soil
- you can find anything you desire with a click
"At least the power didn't go out - last time I nearly fried my motherboard
and missed out the evening's trending topics."
The heat, seething desire, finally broke open.
- a storm of intensity shaking frustration loose like a stiff rag
- that desire to get out and connect like a cheap clique drives my slowly mined focus
and lost
the digging begins.

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