Saturday, April 25, 2015

Mt. Everest.

My heart goes out to Nepal and everyone on Everest today.

There was a tragic and catastrophic loss of life today in the nation, with a small percentage occuring due to an avalanche triggered by the quake at Everest Base Camp.

Follow for more information regarding the location of expedition teams and news directly from the mountain!

Thursday, April 23, 2015


How come all the roads shift south to north?
Circular, recursive
And roundabout,
And back again,
Back home;
When they should reach and tear ragged wounds
Into that cold purple horizon, into the abyssal black,
Through the tunnel of night and into the distance,
Until we see our way clear at last.

How come that bitter chill of night bites
At frozen words we might expel?
Hoarfrost phrases freezing until they break,
Until lips crack, and there's the cold hard silence
We didn't speak when we first met the night,
On the night we first met and tasted the cold copper
Of blood from each other's mouths.
When we refused to remain inside,
When all the signs of science
Might tell us to do

The gentle violet fog of twilight casts its own doubts,
Casts twin shadows of love and longing,
Of solitude and hope;
Its wispy tendrils clinging
Close to our bare chests as we attempt to bare
And bear our hearts,
All the while,
The weight of the everlasting Stars
and their songs upon us.

How come there's a shake in our hands when we wake,
There are tremors and such when the cold is faint -
Tremors that match the rhythm of a simple and gentle thing,
Like the heart sweetly pounding against the back of a cage
Of bones that barely keep it contained.

How come all the markers are turned south?
The signs that might point any which way but here are
Sealed by ice and the indifferent stare of a million different
Galaxies of lifeless and distant rocks and balls of gas,
Shining their light from history, already dead, but still
Signalling that there is hope,
There is a ghost.

How come there's a light in the dimming distance,
in a sun that's already set?

Why, at the dawn or the decline of already dying light,
Do I see you?

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Cold nostalgic energy.

[I've endured, I've eaten, I've persevered, I've been cavalier, but rarely have I forgotten.]

         As the deadlock begins to break, here in this darkness we'll remain,
We'll languish in the languid light, and hope for evenings of more substance,
We'll cast our thoughts and doubts like lots, here where we smash all our hopes and dreams,
The parabolic lines intersecting at the highest highs and lowest lows of us, but you, you're really ...
You're something.

I really hate to ask, but to you my dear sweet darling, to what end?
To what end do we proceed?
Go on and shake your face at me, shake your fists, but you and I both know,that -
Yeah, so now I've made my choice, I can't ever take it back.

All that time we spent, starving early on,
our lust for the taste of tongues, but the simple fact of the matter is that our lust
won't cover us, won't bury us in this and we won't
 cower or run for cover,
strangle me, smother me and

I will listen
And i have heard you for the thousandth time today
But I will Listen
In my indifference
I'll hear you for a thousand more days
And I will listen, because behind this oddity is light,
Behind this oddity is life, even though,
We are broad and older, and we drink to celebrate,
We drink a tribute to common sense
We really only get
In two year increments.

I know I struggle because I suppress thoughts of you,
but maybe, just maybe, girl, your thoughts of me are absent -

Do you remember that thing I wrote about
About being able to talk about my future
Without being careless with words like providence and the part
About thanking my lucky stars at night for unrequited love,
Or the impression that I get that you're slung up by my wit?
One touch from you and it's over,
One touch and I'm over,
I'm bent.

The designs in the stars, the lines of constellations dotted like the lines in the road,
The heat mirage rippling them into oily black and orange and blue, and you?
You're nothing but a dusty memory now, fading into asphalt distance in the rearview.

What's this?
Cold nostalgic energy
The chill of cold at the poles,
        The rocky silence of ice in a place
        Where the only direction is north,

What's this?
    Cold nostalgic energy,
    It's plainly fading,
   The chill of cold at the poles
    You're plainly fading,
    Fading into distance in the rearview,

  . . .

free association (o, the words)

.isnt free association good for you?.
February 16, 2011 at 10:07pm

It wouldn't be the first time I was without words.

It's not our first day at the track, our first lap, our first round or first drink, carrying two cups through the crowd in the club, but I bend. I'm weaving my way through all of them, through all the crowd of reds and blues to you. Heh, yeah. I'm doubled over at the strength of being drawn to something I tried (well, barely) to forget. To nevermind and overlook. Nah, not my style.

I'd write about it if I could find the words, but the pen won't move an inch, my hand won't move a muscle. My feet? Yeah, no fucking steps.

I'd paint it if I could pick the colors, if I could frame the horizon around you.

I'd sing it if I could  narrow down the notes, the pages and pages of sharps and flats I'd need to tell them an aimless history of what I've been watching

Since I've been watching


All the times I'd watched you move in the dark, in the glow, in the afterburn of what we all knew was everyone's private time. Everyone's time alone away from home  - We roamed and huddled together in the shadows and cold. We danced in the dark until we forgot our names,then we met each other again and again - Never understanding, but never caring,

Nevertheless we all found the same roads in the end, apart. We all got the sensation that we'd all have to walk our own ways until we could do it again - Until we could come back to watch the setting sun sparkle on shimmering water.

Yeah, I'd find the words to say I want to do that every day if there were some. I'd slash at any canvas with cans and brushes and stripe any lined page with all the memories my heart swells with. Yeah, I'd write it all down in a song for you and anybody that's wants to take the time to hear it. To read it. To remember, cause I do.

Still, weaving my way through the crowd just to see, to check. Is it you?

Still - my beating heart thrashing back against my fist pounding my chest, still.

Still wandering these halls and bars and aisles of everything new for something, still.

Still wondering if we might find the time one day when we awake, for something new. For someone new. Still.

Yeah, I'm counting the days. I'm picking out my palette and all my p's and q's.

And maybe I did start painting, start singing, start writing, but not for anything but you

Saturday, April 11, 2015

in medias res.

[Well, where do we start when we're already in the middle of things?
Let's take a few nights to drive this starlight world outside,
i'm afraid the weight of waiting any more nights upon nights will crush us,
bones to dust and dust to darkness and memories and all.]

Total silence now, for night and nightfall and everything after.
The cloak of dusky purple shrouds us as pinhole stars wink to life through night's velvety folds.
I'm by my own side, roadside, under the boughs of some big and bending mimosa tree.
The sounds of cicadas are the only sign I'm not alone.
I think to myself what was it like before, peering through
the fingers in a handmade fan of mimosa fronds, and I sigh.
I can feel the barkless tree against my back like some giant spine.
At first, I was fine with it being this simple, but now I'm not so sure.
Now, I'm certain I want it all. I fall asleep to the sounds of the breeze,
And your radio through your open window.
And I don't want to leave.

I marched right up to the wrought iron, to your screen door
with a script fully prepared, sharpied glossy photos and index cards.
It's a history worth nothing, but it's worth a shot.
How I've spent these past six months of nights without you, I still scream for you,
Still dream of you - fuck - it could have been so real. But the mold is cast, and times change,
I've changed, and it's total silence for now, it's ceasefire, it's peace and solace for now,
But we can't progress any faster when I offer my words, and you drop them to my feet,
Your radio is the only thing that crackles with life,
And I don't want to leave, but ...

My body will barely bear the ash and salt from us,
My lungs will heave, and I know
You don't know what I'm capable of,
But I want, I can't do anything but leave,
Won't you let me leave?

Permission granted,
We'll catch winds far from home, return from these things that we don't know.
We'll distance ourselves,
Permission granted,
To strangle myself slowly.

Friday, April 10, 2015

Dispatches from the shadow of the serac.

[On the windward side, on the lee side,
The wind and snow will eat my viscera,
Will hide and bury my bones, but you
You lead the way, and I'll follow -
I'd never intended on going home.
Take my word for it, I'm not worth it.]

     I take walks sometimes past willows and sweetgums, past looming oaks and middling pecans, under the prophetical language of the leaves, the branches and limbs sway and drop the greens of common speech to my feet. I'm not prone to sensitivity, but the light, the twilight beams of moons and stars and faraway feelings leave me feeling so suddenly feeble.

   It's funny, the way the wordly things express themselves, the way the sidewalk cracks in the heat, under pressure, the way the limbs and boughs bend and twist toward the light. It's strange, the times the inanimate things arrange themselves into series, into historical compositions.

Take me away from the trees and the oceans,
Take me away from common sense and history,
Or am I already gone?

  You stroll sometimes past the houses of boys and girls, covered in bruises and the scent of the old plague,
masked beneath the saccharine aroma of honeysuckle vines, reaching to grasp fences and trees like infant hands. You're not one to gush, but the sights, the simple silent sound of the night leave you feeling so fiercely distant.

    And isn't it odd, the way our hands intertwine, the way my face nests neatly in your neck? We've never known the way, we say, to indulge our senses to the stolen flowers inside my vest, next to your dress, the floral scents joining us, only for a moment, before decay, before curling in anger.

And we'll curse at the sky, we'll pray to the night to steady our hands,
To release us, quivering, from the chains,
How heavy our heads,
How heavy this hand,
We're crowned in anger.

Take me away from the stars and the dark,
Take me away from nostalgia and hope,
or am I already gone?

Friday, April 3, 2015

staple (throwback)

.a staple decision for anyone so delicate.
June 30, 2011 at 12:04am

our mouths both emptied at once,

not from spilling all sounds and vowels,

but left  breathless,

a sense that

what was said was best for us

when we said nothing.

the rapture they fabled in your voice,

the silent sounds speak volumes of it,

though i may never know it

as i hold you, here,

four feet away,

in the dizzying listlessness of meeting,

idle, under a grey and violet sky ablaze

with the fingers of the sun just moments ago,

but drowsing now as we reach farther into

the whispers of the hours,

reach farther for your hand in this,

blissful forgetting of sounds and light.


the man with the fever face smiles through the fog, rubbing boot black on his
arm and striking to it a lit match.
he smiles and sniffs at the afterburn.
he says it reminds him of his old brick house,
his nose edging closer,
claiming it smells the way
his favorite sidewalk smells after a cold rain,
the beads of raining drops reflect the
stars and the moon under his eyes,
his night sky pouring out into the reflecting pools
beneath him.

don't beg for change facing east, he learned,
or use the pay phone on eighth,
every mother's child gets a busy signal there.

he knows his memory serves him, but he knows that memories are also lies,
 the happiness is only a shimmer,
fiction taking you by the hairdresser,
turning you around,
coming down hard
when you try to choose not to get out of bed.
he knows the face when he remembers his father is
really jimmy carter,
a ghost on a black and white emerson tv set he had when he was 5,
but he feels alright with a faceless father.

 the fever, he can feel,
 like rolling trains and thunder and his face is on the cold rail on the track.
he kisses with barricade teeth rows again and again, washing
down the steel with pouring tears, and cursing bygones and passer-bys for their empty pockets
and changeless names.
he says he knows the key to happiness is never in those memories.
he turns on bootless heel for his family and says his day of winning and loss is at hand
and changes his dollar bill for quarters at the laundromat.
he says they released the dogs hours ago, but he's been standing right here.
he says he had it figured out til now, he says it's all worth less when he's not standing in the rain.
he changes his mind, goes back for his change.
he says he can't shake it, the fever, he's shaking.
for 75 cents
or life.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

written at home.

[there's always an easy way out]

We've known this place before, seen our shoes in the sands we stir with time,
Passing over easily mistaken lines drawn and redrawn, sketched, outlined
like chalk bodies in the miniature wind danced dunes.

Not that it seems to be anything to remember anymore, say... The way
we know this day will pass,
the sun will set,
stars rising from their beds
below our heads,
and up, up, up, above.
Have we been missed ?

When they circle our other half, the hemispheres twisting, running faster.
At least that's how we pretend. We'd like to think the world was still turning,
and we weren't just running around a static track.
White knuckled,
panting and holding it all in,
The sprinter's trance.

What portraits did we pass along the way?
Did we leave them face down as we passed?
A forgotten memory,
a moment in time,
a pause - left to fade out grey?
We can walk on and pretend the faces will come back from their faded states,
that the spirits we walk over are just fading out like the stars at dawn.
 They'll be back for us.


The faint twinkling never seemed like suffering to us, but what do we know about being universal?

Still, we can drag our laces through the gravel.
The sandy streets.
The only place we know.

Under a dawn or maybe a sunset,
Out into a southern starlit night,
The sky is clear tonight,
The stars are bright
Across a sky we pretend to find much more beautiful than we feel at the time we see it,
Because, after all, stargazing is longing.

And we can feel that without the sky's help.