When We Clock In

We clock out at the same time also

So when the slivers of sun tiptoe through the office blinds

I recoil

And then recoil at the thought that this cave has blinded me

Until I don’t want to see myself anymore and my cubicle even less

creative nonfiction Poetry Writing

Unloving Love

Today, I’m at the freehand on Ohio (19 E), feeling fortunate that I can leave

then to

somewhere to sleep the same night

then to

my need to rush the gauntlet where people (are meant to) battle to meet (but ultimately fall short of) my lofty expectations

then to:

negative ruminations behind

and a mind to be sure when this happens next time…

I’ll end the war in a loft

some place more than just “somewhere to sleep the same night”

Poetry Writing

At Sea

If Calypso could keep Odysseus ashore
and stare at oceanic expanses knowing everything before the horizon belonged to her

Could clasp her arms around the breastplate of the warrior of the world

If Odysseus could gaze at her holding peace

at black hole sun, spattered gold in shining shadow 
and still gaze

If Calypso could imagine Odysseus was hers without poisoning the sands with leaden tears,

then refreshed and tirelessly agile,

I can keep you from turning outward your shadow heart.

From telling nonsense lies to my canvas ears.

So will I sit betwixt Calypso’s legs as she threads seashells into the curls–between my tendrils and coils. 

And she can tell me where Odysseus went wrong.

If Calypso can beat down doubt of why he did not stay

Then we can say you drowned at sea.

Confessions Poetry

Put Out What You’ve Set Ablaze

The scent in those leaves is yours

The heat of the tangle we share

The hit of this tango we’ve skipped

Long lost in the jungle we wait

Four limbs to be strangles in “yes”

Head light from the toggle and twish

I’ve longed to be headstrong and wrong

Five eyes to be open and melt

You’re mine from the tangle of trust


I’m yours from the break of the day

Put out what you’ve set ablaze.

Poetry Uncategorized

Utopia Was Real

Utopia was real
At one time
It was not new
Was not unlikely 
Was deserved
At one time 
Till then, again
Endure this hell


Proof by the Faults

In bed without solace of rest
Each sand of the day falling 
In poring over the text of ages. 
Like bed-light under comforter
Many moons ago. 
Still a similar warmth of spirit
And text of ages in hand:

A letter. 
From father to long lost love
Not mother. 
Proof of an everlasting trial. 
Secrecy by the fault lines
Which brought forth death
In the form of children. 
A text for the ages.