These eyes on me

say, “Something’s off.’

I’m nothing, often,

at the coffee shop

spent only a buck

and change for a refill

nose-deep in a book

and Something’s off.


Need to be alone,

don’t want to be alone,

but I deserve to be alone.

Got to be this way.


The corner of eyes, I

think, think “Something’s off

about that guy.”

I’m nothing, often,

at the corner store,

they know I’m here

for a four-pack

and almonds.


Those eyes on me

say something I

don’t see:

You really look back,

and that’s a relief.

Don’t feel.

Don’t think about anything.

It’s why I need you.


A fine dusting of brightness

on starving eyes,

Push Fast Forward on this life.

“Maybe it gets better.”



I’m watching

As this life is brought to a boil.


Relief found in pockets of

My back against a wall,

For the five minutes I allow myself:

Staring off,

Playing with eye floaters

Against the back drop of

A pale blue sky,

Like a glitter globe;

Watching it turn into a glare

In a matter of hours,

Slowly revealing an image of me.

Ear buds blasting a vague semblance of

“Here with me” (the White Noise alt. version),

Reluctant to open books for

What I’ve been waiting my whole life to study

And reluctant to quit now

Because I hadn’t done enough.


I just want to play the drums

Or maybe find the time to learn guitar:

Something that I can do in my apartment,

You know?


“Don’t think about…”

I’ll take five more –

Of staring off.

Just until this song ends.


I am the ebony joy,

A blackberry soaking in a wine glass

Or a coat of varnish,

An embrace eternal

And entombing.


Either way, I’m quite dense from years of pressure,

Cooked and processed.

It’s a wonder my blood flows at all

As a ladder bearer,

Son of ladder.


I equal my outside

As little as possible

To maintain potential

For fear of losing me.


I am a collective of gradient crossing barrier

And am frightened of rejection by the great wave

As it cracks

And turns into a receeding shoreline

To crash

And recede…

An apology.



Spinning panorama:

Atop this tire swing,

I can see anything

Between blades of grass

Crunchy leaves bark in the front lawn;

Jump to twenty-two

Nervous to tell you

My head is spinning:

Picture my everything

Dizzy, Sick of this vacation

Is not how I’ll remember you

In a lens of blues

I’ll spin you a photograph

Of us meeting in youth

And you’d be my everything.


Life is precisely

the coiling of a wick as it burns

entertaining shape with the right catalyst,

until it chars,


becoming un-life:

coughing out phantoms of purpose.



“Everything dim hums,

Our fingers glide along this fragile state

Disrupting soft noise

with felt.”


This is a splinter

that I fell for

and mull over,

for want of…


Of words that could have been

or had been said better

Or maybe…


This splinter, I

want, am, feel often

is a constant

of dreamless night:

this in lieu

of a confidence

in completeness;


This splinter,

a ritual



for the demon in mirrors:

I toss and turn

to resolve its energy.


I suffocate in this dimness, as

a throat feels rasp in sync

to this place, alone

undeserving of teeth.





It is a spell sewn

from lips a quiver;

the veil of a tongue

amorous and sweet on



It is a spell sewn

From a place that is

Caged and Sleepless,

Feeling romance in what it cannot

“In a million years”



It is a spell sewn

from a part that longs,

soaked in tincture;

becoming naked over



It is a spell sewn

from a stain on those lips

“The last straw,”

a pistol drawn to scribe

a part of my soul unto



now You must