we can go on, but not this way

feeling the air

get on its way for the day

cool setting out

as sunlight takes its place


in the moment,

presence blends among warmth and chill,

thoughts of mummy, tea, and the way leaves listen

to bend ever slightly

…is it learned? do they let go? to catch and pass down, I mean –


a look to the clock.

full stop.

the mechanism continues,

without “you” …is that okay? am I okay? what is okay?

let it be. in every sense. as it be.


untitled, in three parts

part one

scoring the halls of institutions

a childish convergence without question,

rather a tunnel of answers, along the sides

pulling the eyes to a crossroads, in a rush

and a sudden halt


rejection of your ways mirrored

turns you internally

so what is that I’m on about…


cue the crisis, identity clarification comes at a price

at times, worthy, and indulgent, and always the former

then found that – woe, who is me? not nearly enough in a world of tangible dreams

there must be deeper still

beyond a body politic

before the rites of men principally concerned with praise,

rarely the practice


part two

through these phases, I find my poems feel like prayer – recited, though they may be spelt again

in revisiting selves

being, what were, and others,

you may wander upon bridges unfamiliar or

worse: familiar and uncomfortable.

you may find transformation is relative,

not unrelatable


and there for all tethered to it

do not think yourself special, nor weak


part three

it’s been a minute

since I’ve channeled the audacity

to speak admittedly,

you know how heavy that ego be and now

I feel the space to breathe

rising up out of me, from the collective sea,

knowing the tongue in this cheek

how it whips sweet and dark from beneath

the source drips deep


dances with doubt

when doubt is your friend,

what kind of truth are you living?

dusk dims again to day

and what was turns may have been

in the back of the eye

I have seen certain lose its peak

yet beyond the depth of the retina,

in darkness,

there is solace

every thing in its right place

in *this* time and space

to bump in the night.

I tow degrees of disillusion

rollicking through the room

finding promise in glass broken, wedged in bare soles,

swept away, dislodged by careful hand

– see, tender and tough do not oppose –

with bruises from hip to shin, ripe and healing

in tones of sunset and sunrise.

I dance, lifted on stubbed toes

all the while,

sowing ahead through tears and laughter.

sweet nothings

nihilists are dreamers, no doubt

drawing upon blanks where input be constant and continuous and it seems we’ve lost pace of the cycles that hold us in stride

theres something about their appreciation for absence in the midst

of largely inconsequential abundance 

..where it matters most, anyway

unriled amongst frenzy, 

calm as the storms eye

stoic to the whiplash set for fickle folks –          

twisted necks with swollen heads, wrapped up and drowning in material things

the way of trade in manufactured currency and fear that we won’t fit it all onto the heavenly plane –

many of us pray the distortion is in our mirror

– stoics will remember, one never truly sees one’s self so perception be the low-lit lantern leading to another 

or did you ever think that the anarchists are saddest to see the state go

having spent lifetimes trying to say loudly and clearly, through dusty texts and encrypted messages:

‘it is [all of] ours to take. We could share and savor [with or without] it. Don’t you see?’

but with never enough means collected to prove such possible, let alone true, to those tied to the tangible

bearing witness well before tender hands raised and clenched to resistance yet

here we are, many with early eyes, shocked by the tragedy – a bubble, burst in the lukewarm bath, an uncaking of sweet sticky sleep about the creases 

we some have attuned to the waverings of your voice and the tears, your sweat –

vibrations of the air and salt of the earth

bearing the reality that all in all cannot be,

that smoke and mirrors be revealing 

we stay pupils, young, invisibly connecting that that we see to be drawn to. 

it’s familiar, the earnest call to company amidst chaos and somehow unrecognizable, the statement of natural born rights to resolution –

you know – commitments of our choosing, and the silver cloud clarity of conviction 

and the spirit seekers who chase down ghosts and illuminate phantoms of who we could be, what we could see with eyes soft, lids pressed upon each other, cleansed of false promises and pre-packaged hopes, in lieu of empty frames on a scrolling stage

who know that the little bits of divinity we are granted as humans being are never guaranteed to stay here – welcome , at times conjure , you are precious and fierce.

sit, be. whole in partiality. 

these statements are assured yours as well:

we are of this earth and air and much more 

we are of this world yet feel the cosmos beyond our bones

it is those/us/the seers, speakers, healers

whose sense of relation binds our words , wounds , and sentiments to entities beyond current comprehension , currency , or fortune-funded communications, no?

and if all we do is to turn this deep breath and heavy sigh – a last expulsion, together, into a meditative motion, a reverberation.. why not? how so? is it zealous exaggeration, mastery of illusion, basic distillation? “judged” so, perhaps. 

*note that no action is detailed in these declarations, hear these poems are my truth and I couldn’t bear misguiding. Any answers in this script lie with you

circumnavigate if you must to find who you are is right here and not and know that you know it so

let positivity ring out from your NO,

and every attempt to save your soul from the wretched self and it’s jealous lovers


building benevolence (playing crane)

​soft, smooth to let what will, flow

stubborn and strident to make it happen

perhaps both…goals

on alternate ends,

inviting you to open up and see it all, broad

part of one sum, something greater


because there will be times the truth

shows your self to you

and times out of balance

but do not practice the latter. trust.

I once tried –

to escape the former, self,

and reached the same

dark, dank, dreadfully conscious corners

each round about

until standing one leg taut,

this being built up, greeted reflection,

flexed, and flew out


drawing in, extending, retracting,

along the way

seeking to build benevolence

once and for all, resolved:

not to take this life to its end

but to disappear time and again,

unconcerned with returns,

to learn of shared destiny,

that work be prayer and playtime,


and though spirits be bound to something

near secrecy

all souls at some crossroads,

find harmony.




piffler: a confession 


so what does it mean to stare your bullshit in the face

what response comes to mind?

is it poetically painful? satisfying enough? both?

when haunted faithfully by ghost emotions

and the ones who’ve seen the most of you

can’t bear to look

in your own eyes

as that check-in text is sent, registered, archived for the last time

and you know you’ve really earned it; the silence

has been read and received

does anxiety speak volumes of truth for you? how does ‘numb’ auto-correct?

perhaps it’s all the same

running away in a cage

an earnest futility

motion isn’t action, is it?

harsh reality in dirty mirrors

thrown back at you

swollen, empty

when touch meets sight

in your crusted corners

dim light, like relative clarity, beckons,


reveals familiar darkness

so then full-length, and filled out

why stand there?

what do you say?


mineral syllables

at times, it is there

what needs to be said

and in just the right way


where mineral syllables do best to flow

deeper, to echo in caverns –

a drop of




resonating in subconscious terrain

the domain of stuttered substance



stalactites into stalagmites form

as one let go of once before

navigating formations unfamiliar


say it so, whole,

to be willed away,

and gravity promises, it will fall into place

drawn from the beginning to the core








a foggy acrostic

A simple acrostic, via Daily Prompt: Foggy

Feeling full and free – of what, I’m not sure..

Obscure visions of paths cosmically connected

Give time for pieces to settle and air to clear.. perhaps chaos finds a state of rest here

Generously dressed in cool, neutral, whipped swirls..

Yet again, it furls and discloses of its own volition, this fog

…so, I suppose, the rest must remain to be seen.




on the days where you notice rainbows shine through your eyelashes,

when you’re drunk off salt and moonlight,

let wind greet your aura with a nod and a smile,

a lift, and embrace

– a familiar new space unfolds

where you find solace


seen cycle(s)

clouds above,

in harmony with the depths,

channel rumblings of change

on a stormy beach


with friction, release

as sure as

the tides turn to breeze,

carrying the eye upward and outward

to the same blues and light-churned hues


you stand

toes dug in, feeling ground fall to foam

rolling underfoot, little by little, away


you stand

holding on at the sole,

trusting soul, core, and sinew to see you through


or carry you in step

that the grit of your body mix with

the salt of her own

with each push into the sands

against past and current


never again the same,

but always another time ’round

the exchange of sun and rain

in sync with sea and psyche


and if night came and the ocean stood still

how would you feel it stop? all at once? from then on?

perhaps the draw of a vast, endless mirror


that the light absorbed in the colors we see,

is the same energy

permeating all from a swell underneath