Winter: Locks

It is getting colder.
Night is staying longer and more patient.

Learning about happiness is progress. Understanding it is like trying to hold lightning without suffering charred veins and roadmap scars and gray hair.

Pain before healing.
Death before life.
Lies before truth.

Before we drown in bathtubs full of our own blood, and let red lungs spill black soot and smoke and tar.

Everything is dying everyday and I am only trying to learn about happiness, lightning, and drowning.

The trees are wilting.
The lakes are freezing.

All of my friends are leaving, and I still see happiness drag across my eyes every night before I die.


Today I wrote one thousand words while a man on the television shot other men, got the girl, and drove off into the sunset. It was a good story.

Yesterday I sat in a chair and made people I rarely see, money I’ll never count, or spend, or smell. They are happy and drive expensive cars to places that serve expensive food and everyone loves them. It was a good story.

Tomorrow I’ll check the weather and look at myself in the mirror too long and think about all the things I want to do before I die before driving a car that barely works on roads that are never flat. I’ll remember mistakes and happiness and orgasms and naked bodies and drugs and alcohol, but I won’t remember this. Not this second or minute or hour because it isn’t a good story.

The man on the television stands against impossible odds and wins, killing all the bad guys whose families will know them only as Dad and Brother and Son. The woman is beautiful. The sunset is pale yellow and orange and pink.

It is a good story.

Fall: Postcard

Hot rocks laying
against my xiphoid
since leaving high
desert rock sand,
pinus ponderosa
heavy, and none of
the drugs seem to help.

I haven’t truly loved
in years, possibly never.

There’s something romantic about being able to recognize loneliness in the eyes of others, but I want nothing to do with any of them.

This entire city, and all of its color, moves without breathing like the giant that chases everyone when they sleep.

steal us from
our homes, and
lead us by our necks
to new sunsets.

Fall: Canada

Sat north border side
soaking vitamins
with blood needles

and 168 hours
of empty slate sky,
satellites sucking on
the waves we leave

against the fabric
of one another.

Never about
tomorrow, jaws slack
on off on off,
the good old days
weeping over the
tombstone fields
on off on off-

Too many corpses
hanging around our
necks to be rip-tide brave,
organs cement chiseled
to machinery grade,
sinking slower and
slower on off on off.


We probe, into
wood worn before
learning about
and the way
knots turn young
eyes to milk.
Telling stories,
the long ones,
about nothing
and how it made

into the thing
we now embody-

whether all
or knots or
smooth edges,
we are immortal
omniscient world
crushers with fingertips
bathed in gold,
splitting atoms
on basement
couches hanging
ourselves with speech,
hoping for connection.


Four hours of sleep.

Four hours until waking, pretending yesterday was special.

Four hours without thinking.

Four hours without conscious breathing.

Four hours until waking, pretending today will be a day to remember, five, ten, twenty years from now.

Twenty hours before four hours without irrational thought and the intention of being the centerfold of life.

Four hours until I hate myself again. Dreams always look better when the ego isn’t in checkmate. When distortion is the memory and not fated to rationalization.

The sun was not,
two melting tangerines.

Your hands were not,
carved from ice.

This place was not,
as long, or deep, or tilted.

Summer: Birthed

I have kept
this soul
still, yet
my body
vibration, no
matter how subtle
or from who,
grinding my
teeth against
the memory

of Love.
A feeling,
only a feeling,
sewn into
my subconscious
to be something
placed pedestal
high, despite low

says a Spirit
can guide
when asked,
but the bottom
of every bottle
fails to speak.

My feelings,
only defined
by ghosts,
begin to feel

cliche, and
that is somehow