Winter stills my heart

I go where the bears go

And we together leave trails for the tourists

Up in the Alps, where the rings are clear

And the weather is cedar

I wed the cup of cocoa, lilting to tune

Ne’er made off with the weeds, they ripen too

And whispering in the ear, it is a whistle of the wind


Think harder!

Think harder!

Think think think!

Me A: So… what’s it like being illiterate?

Me B: It sucks.

Me A: Why?

Me B: Because I can’t enjoy reading.

Me A: Well why don’t you try harder?

Me B: It’s too hard. It’s too difficult. It’s hard work, and I don’t do hard work.

Me A: Well why don’t you try?

Me B: Because it’s too hard and unrewarding.

Me A: Why is it unrewarding?

Me B: I don’t know.

Me A: Well I guess that’s settled then. You just can’t read for leisure.

Me B: I guess so.

Me A: It’s a shame, since I am you. I would love if we could read. For leisure.

Me B: Yeah I know. Me too.

Lull of tune, I sing and dance I moan I beget

The fallen, the stardom crest, the bitter frond

Memory recalling me to this last place

I plunder the crest, sit still and patiently

And smile, wryly, like all the rest

Field Trip

Press letter

Between thumb and forefinger

Native language dispersed

Like crumbs to the ocean breeze, letter torn

Dispersed like flower petals at the wedding

Dispersed like the schoolchild crowd at the park

On field trip to the joy ride

Section: Distillery

No, wonder, no mixing this thing up

I leave and am lost

What age am I?

Which corridor leads to the present?

I stumble down the aisles, purchase groceries

Perpetually silent, silent movie running in front of me

In front of my inner eye

But I have no celebration, no coming of age

Just another zoo animal, on display

Everyone ignores, it is a farce

Without being bitter, I know, and I know that I know

So I walk on, through the doors, following another light in the tunnel

Often left-handed, clumsy social scene

Nonexistent people ploughing through my path

Faces on the promenade

Always faces

All this way, all that

Weekend, weekend, lovely sun

Scorch scorch, rumination of cancer

I can play ball! I swear

No fear of the distant near future

No tussling in the sheets for me, the star

I fear only the losing of loss itself

Never wonderment, always endearing

It is a hollow echo what plays on the drums of the mind’s ear

When strangers be near



This one’s about life. Could you tell? I don’t like how the intro has nothing to do with the main body. Oh well.

Ditty on Brain Damage

Voices come calling

Voices come rolling

Not that I will ever admit I did

Not that I will ever admit it damaged the sponge in my skull

How can sponges be damaged?

They can be torn and chemically imbalanced

Or so says the psychiatrist, at least one half of that is true

So I absorb all I can, with the cracks still in between

And voices come calling

Voices come tumbling

Not that I ever fell down

Except in kindergarden off the playset onto the concrete

Where I then awoke on the sofa at home later that day

No word of concussions

But I play, and continue to feel the pain of psychic storms

Sudden blackouts, during the games

And voices come calling

And voices come singing

Not that I sing when I’m drunk

Nor that the nerve endings weren’t blunted and stunted

From all that drinking in college

But I have switched to water–not vodka, haha–and try to stay hydrated

Without incurring to much sobriety

And voices come calling

And voices come breathing

Not that I forgot how, just that the standards are a bit high

What with yoga and belly breathing in the air

The therapist reminds me of the trends

And I remember asphyxiating in my room from too much marijuana

And voices come calling

And voices come calling




Feels unfinished but you know I don’t generally like patterned poems. :). Hopefully you find some humor in this one.

Evening Promenade through Oceanside with Friends

A weed harrows

I light my light

Say never, null

Lantern to fix me up

Again, I froth over

Be it stasis,

Propaganda, in the ocean

I wander, lust

Butter the friends up

We slip into dream

Many a wary traveler

Make ocean wake

Wake static, fake

Leave this place

For crumbling water

Over the soul, we fill

And pour over

Into the leaky bucket, me


Lifting cross on scorched hillside


Something’s off

About this family, this life…

Wonder what’s–it’s me?


How used to it.

My age should care of itself, I doubt not that I’m regressin’

Powers ‘n actin’

Mustn’t be more alert

Avoid slips

This will makes me a different whole

It seems like something big is

What got lost?