is it selfish for me
to want to be
around you all of the time

maybe it’s true
or maybe it’s you
who makes me write poems that rhyme


bathed in the glow of the undersea
you took my mind and guided me
unrestricted, lost and won
children of the moon and sun

sing to me
a bar or two
and when i sleep
i’ll dream of you


last week, when i saw you at the grocery store
it was surreal (to say the least)
like you hadn’t existed until then
everything before us had gone away
and there we were
as perfect strangers
a confrontation staved off by your ignorance

how things have changed for us both
how things have moved
perhaps it wasn’t you i saw at all
but whoever was left
i knew when i saw you
you looked too sad
and i think i know why
but there’s nothing i can do for you now

it was always surreal
and i never liked that grocery store anyway


Every time I hear that opening chord
It’s your fingers threading through mine
And hand-holding is so passé
Hand-holding is so blasé
But I think of the wall
And our backs pressed against it
And the molten energy in the air

The song plays
The notes shooting needles into my veins
We didn’t see each other but we saw
It was everything we needed
Those chords tore open a new soul
And we held hands like we could do nothing else


perhaps beneath all of this
there is an ancient civilization
frozen like a beetle in amber
coiled in peaceful dormancy
untouched and unbroken
to be rediscovered


let’s party with monsters
and dive in with cynics
let’s be out with the in crowd
and smoke cigarettes like we’re cool
if we stay out past curfew
our kingdoms won’t fall
let’s sleep for tomorrow
it’s nothing at all


too many flickers of inspiration
circling in anticipation that they might be chosen
a crowded dance
and i
in a flurry of confusion
rush to their sides in comfort
don’t worry i whisper
your time is coming
and each of them coils into itself
and springs forth
bringing with it a dazzling array of ideas
what if
instead of destroying this chaos
i create it?

this might be the beginning of a novel(la), or something, not sure yet

Her smoke extended its fingers up into the sky, prodding the storm.

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cover art for my next book of prose & poetry, Fever Dreams, featuring some of my very talented writer friendsdue out March 1

cover art for my next book of prose & poetry, Fever Dreams, featuring some of my very talented writer friends

due out March 1


when the time comes
i shall mist my letter of resignation in delicate cologne
like a dear john letter
and i will laugh
as the clown’s sandcastles dry in the sun
and the wind whips my hair
as the door closes behind me for the last time
that final gust of air pushing me out with a whisper

"you were never meant to be here"


as my words become less about myself
so, too, does everything else
and there’s a slideshow of old memories
distorted and different
from the way they were first put away
suddenly it’s the smell of grass
and not blackening wood
or a seamless canvas of blue
instead of ripped couch cushions
sometimes it’s easier to forget
than remember
when someone is holding your hand
and enough time has passed now
where even the memories become unnecessary
so, too, do you


it was shy fingertips
and album-long trips
something strange was in the sky
the day you and i arrived
falling from the moon
collecting notes
from your melodies
tie them into my hair
give me a reason not to fly
with you tied there, too
it’s just words until they’re spoken

something strange
was always my thing