Wednesday, November 10, 2010


Perhaps when you wish to speak more,

you should think less.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Angry Rhymes

Can't you see the pain hidden just beneath my eyes?
Can't you hear the shaking tone that rattles through my lies?
Can't you smell the fires that burn deep with my soul?
Can't you taste the passion when you and I are whole?
Can't you feel the softness of every breath I take?

I can see, hear, smell, taste and feel
everything you fake.

Monday, November 1, 2010


We all, 
we and me and you 
we all want to look back, 
to remember the good ol' days. 
If such they were.  
If such they were good, I mean.

Do you remember now?
The innocent days. 
The carefree, careless, stoned school days. 
The Friday night football, 
be home by curfew, 
Strawberry wine, 
No. 2 pencil days.

Back in those days, 
when the temple of unrequited love lectured from his soapbox, 
lectured from our parents, teachers, televisions, dealers, 
etcetera etcetera...
I hung out with the Third Street Anarchists that summer. 
We made up conspiracy theories in the backyard 
over tequila shooters and acid tabs 
and when god left, 
because he did, 
when god disappeared 
I left that small town prison for the city of dreams, 
where the anti-existentialists rule and nothing alters everything. 
Everything is altered. 
Even here.

Maybe, especially here.

Friday, October 29, 2010

Sunday, August 29, 2010


waves run like electricity
and pound against me
like pure 

these shades of gray -
will not go back, will
not go back
to the original sparks created
and cannot go back

i fall
and fade
and crack like glass 
and melt in the sand
beneath the waves 
that run like electricity
through me

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Today's Ramblings

today a poem woke me and this time, this time I was ready.

even if you were not.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Sonnets or Symphonies

I spoke with Shakespeare last night.

He told me stories in iambic pentameter.

But I didn't listen.

You see-

Beethoven was down the hall playing Fur Elise.

And all I wanted to do,

Was dance.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

A Metaphor

My grandmother has a jewelry box where she keeps a special ring for each of her granddaughters.

She tells me the story of mine, which is hope.
It breathtaking.  Captivating.
The ring.
The story of the ring.

But I know it means death, before I wear its past.

So her jewelry box, is really Pandora's.

Sunday, August 15, 2010


                              you                   ask
  how I can                      justify
                                           such margins but

sometimes the pen controls me.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Spilled Milk and Other Tragedies

It began-
A simple kiss.
Your lips bless
Curse me now
That you're away.

I was so close, we
We were so close
But milk spills
Into flesh and
Spreads across the
Space between us
In tiny ripples
Of silky, smooth softness
That is not

No use crying.