There’s something


In the act of putting

Pen to paper

Each word unraveling

Before the eyes

Like a burlesque dancer


Layer by licentious layer

Enticing lethal glimpses

Into the human mystique

Sexy little secrets

Sometimes better left

To the imagination


Writing Prompt #118 “Collage 3″

Collage 3

I am given to certain

Eccentricities of gravity,

A pull toward expired luminaries

Toward pocket watches

And sepia-toned reliquaries.

An odyssey unto myself,

I sit aside my bike,

My legs, my arms,

All things mechanical

For the freedom of

Puffed dandelions and dreams.

I spin flowers from regolith

And mammoth bones,

Clouds tucked behind

My ear in place of coins.

I seep into hidden passages,

Into nooks both real and rehearsed,

A Cesarean scar,

A ray of sunshine,

A bucket of rainwater

Gathered accidentally in the shriek

Of an impromptu storm.



Wordle #151


Platters of cotton

Parade over my tongue,

Clouds baked

To the consistency

Of meringue.

I catch celebratory stars

In old jelly jars,

Leaves in the skirt

Of a threadbare dress.

Dreams trip through

A college-ruled notebook

Cramped are the rows

Of parenthetical impression.

There’s never enough time

For paradise and though free

I miss most what I have never seen.


Not too pleased with this one reminds me of something I would have written as a child when I first began


Would I burn out my throat

If the solvent were assured

To take nothing but my voice?

Mud well passed the knees

My primal belly exhales

The fascist grit,

The necrotizing erythrocytes

No one wants to heal

From the inside.


My hollows are deep

Echos scamper from

The barge of my throat

Who is the source

Of these recursive screams?

Is it one of us?


Death is not always obvious

But it is persistent.

Sometimes a ghost

Is just a ghost

Sometimes it’s remorse

And nothing spoils youth

Like remorse.


The rudiments of dreams

Blister behind my eyes,

Those ungodly windows

There is much in this life

That is only supposed

But if not for imagination

I wouldn’t know anything at all.



The mirror speaks its truths

But what heart can be derived

From aesthetics alone?

I know that I grow old

Even if I do not grow wise

Even if I am identical

In every notable respect

My telomeres still

Abbreviate themselves

And my shadow still

Grows crooked

No matter what posture

I chance to effect.


My dreams do not adhere

To linear conventions

I am still the same princess

The same child bride

With her neat rows of cabbages.

I still harvest my minions

From the swollen borders

Of my prolific imagination

I still get lonely and never

When it suits me.


Life and death are interchangeable

I am infirm in both versions

Only in the former am I smiling

I still have my bones and a soul

That resurrects itself in forms

To numerous to articulate

Perhaps we are all

The very same entity

But of a time and dimension

Sufficiently compatible

For intersection


cliff-fog-landscapes-mountains-nature-2855502-1920x1080What is a man if no dream exists worthy enough to define him?

If he is soundless in trespass and of negligible intent

Fear having rendered him woefully prosaic

What if he has not loved deeply or embraced wholly the moment

But stood always at the precipice, a hairs breadth from extinction

Pontificating the immorality of risk when the outcome is unknown

In his final moments what if he lie ribcage barren before the gravekeeper

With none to mourn his passing. Could such a man claim to have lived at all?


Some days I too am a man without presence, surviving, approximating

Unaccountable in the passage of time, some days I am merely the sum

Of my diversions, some days I stand ungraciously by an open window

Waiting for the contents to spill through of their own accord


The universe is imagination manifest, possibility exists even in calamity

We choose to wait rather than to act independently, we choose to beg

Rather then to extend our hearts, lest those hearts end up broken

Better to be in pieces than to expire untouched


I wrote an accompanying discussion on Curious Flowers called Dance like no one is watching

Here is a summary if you don’t want to read that

Keys to success (from my perspective)

  1. Passion/Persistence
  2. Failure is essential to success indeed you can’t experience success without making lots and lots of mistakes first!
  3. Curiosity/willingness to learn
  4. A sense of humor
  5. A willingness to take risks without the assurance of success
  6. Learn what works for you. While studying and testing out the tried and true methods is essential in the end you have to adapt to your specific strengths/weaknesses
  7. Do what you can where you are right now. Every day of our lives we are presented with obstacles. Every day of my life there will be a compelling reason to wait. I am sick, I’m sad, I still have Epilepsy. Don’t wait. Do something.
  8. Acknowledge weaknesses/errors it is essential to growth.
  9. Ask for help when you need it. State what you need very clearly. Help others.
  10. Take responsibility for yourself. Just keep in mind that we are all trying to survive so sometimes we will bump into each other.
  11. “Life is a journey not a destination.” Take it in steps and remember to breathe!

3 words to banish from your vocabulary

  1. Unfair
  2. Impossible
  3. Normal

Angels of the Prosaic

Buddhist Temple's Bird Cage, 1940 Gelatin silver printKansuke Yamamoto

My heart whittles away all intermediary

None who enter shall ever replicate her song

In the absence of data there is always instinct

That I exist is the only catalyst essential to expression


I dream of brush-fires and lightening

Of incidentals and incendiaries

I am intolerant of dysfunction

When it overtakes my composition

To be an alien in the the desert

Is exceptional only in the clarity

Of a well-articulated obligation

Better to be the only Venusian

In a fountain of supple dreams


All these delusions

These unsolicited truths

Shed on gestation

They are mine to gather

Who else exists that can

Define precisely their shape?


I exist in the minutiae

In the dalliances

Of stones and silhouettes

The muse’s pock-marked face

Composed in odyssey

I am not afraid of demons

Only of men who speak falsely


Were I without hope

I’d cease scavenging

Were I without gratitude

My pen would halt

Its recursive sonnet


I am an optimist canvassing

Hell for a paradise lost

A misfit who sees angels

In the veils of the prosaic


My non appointment appointment took an unexpectedly long time. Though there was a scheduling error and they sent me home as soon as I arrived I spent a weird amount of time trying to get home again. I didn’t have much time to write and I now have the pressure of knowing the appointment isn’t even over yet!


8289038209_e2343a19fe_zMy bones are beautiful where they rest

In the crux of your loving disposition


There is wonder in romance,

In the capacity of a soul

That had seemed too savage

For reprieve


Poetry is composed

As a human heart

Wild but reticent

I divide continents

And constituents

Into chambers for both

Conquest and exaltation


There’s nothing as decadent as introspection

The dimensions I’ve seen overtake the stars

In both eradicative and incendiary capacity


This is a hint for the prompt


multiple_personalities_by_schattenkrahe-d3c9o8iArtwork By: schattenkrahe

As a child there must have been a time

When beauty was more state of being

Than degree of starvation

A time when imagination outweighed

Monetary extraction as it ought to do

In any society that professes itself civilized


As a teenager

Graphite hearts ran deeper

Than their messy counterparts

And immortality could only

Be extinguished by fire

Which meant, that in order to die,

One had to live impractically first

Mine was a language capable

Of rescinding and reshaping existence

I was a genius because I suffered

The reverse didn’t necessarily apply


As an adult I find my resignation

Tempered only by discontent

There is red and yellow tape

Beneath which no treasure lies hidden

All my mirrors appear carnival themed

I don’t like the way aging assumes flesh

I am brittle and inflexible

Like an unsuccessful resolution


I wrote this in the bath which is where I find myself whenever I am unable to produce anything suitable on dry land. I have had vertigo for the last 37 hours so if anyone has suggestions I would be grateful.




I wrestled

With your ambitions

This morning

Coffers of diversion

Unsent letters

Oceans of unshed tears

Spirited away

By imagination


You are the fetish

That incites

Even the most

Hapless stars

To bend

A curiosity




From every room

You’ve driven out

The corners

In broad daylight

I crawl leprous

Over the walls


The engorged cavities

Your capacious muse



Your genius


The most

Compelling webs



Our apartment

A nanoliter

At a time


I live with a genius as you know. Geniuses are curious lot. Our apartment is very small but alas the genius cannot put away his tools lest he be unprepared or discouraged when inspiration strikes. My genius has many hobbies: sewing, painting, writing, computers, wood-working, mechanics and electronics, cooking, mathematics (he invented another form of Geometry), and on and on.  Sadly I am not very good at organizing!