Jun 10

leaking epics

The crack in my ceiling idly opens to let Calypso’s
clueless hands reach for my body like a rag doll. 
I’m handled with care despite my bedrock mold. 
I am a new tragedy to tell. A new vase to seal together
with mortar that whispers perpetual tales of courage
and bravery on sacred lands. I remember a home
yet I do not remember such a place. The tender feeling
of Hephaestus's warmth and the sound of Poseidon's zealous
sea’s in the background. My memories replaced
by the sight of Helios tucking the world in with Hypnos
psychedelic blanket that covers me in dreamy colors. 

The sound of a motorcycle riff at 5 am submerses the air.
The neoteric smell of early morning gasoline 
leaves a lingering stench for an everlong 5 minutes, 
and the muffled sound still bounces off of the Amish hillside
along with the creaking of its inhabitants. The leaves rehearse

Jun 08
poem challenge: Great Poets

A Request

"I do not wish to escape to myself, I wish to escape from myself."
- Allen Ginsberg (Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg: The Letters)

do not dwell on my life.

when death licks 
the last reminiscence 
of marrow from my bones.

when my body erodes
from bone to dust
my shadow will be no more.

when i turn from clay to stone.
do not make a monument of me.
i do not wish to be immortalized

for everything has mortality.
in its own sense.

do not dwell on my life.
Jun 04

The Righteous Mans Lament

How human it is 
to crave something Death can touch 
With her bony hands,

And carve out this new
Lifeless space that leaves your heart
With cigarette burns 

And a chronic ache.
You’ll choke on the salty sobs,
And drink yourself to

Sleep every lonesome
Night because his words changed you,
And you will never

Be the same again.
You’ll never get the chance to
Thank him for saving

Your tarnished soul- the
Forever loathing Righteous 
Man- for the last time.
May 30
poem challenge: Great Poets


"America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing."
     - "America", Allen Ginsberg

When the calamity reaches its culmination,
and space-bound aluminum coffins are rife with bodies
like ours, will we wonder how our livestock created
isolated labels to our detriment? Seven worlds separated,
yet our nation united under (one) God, but when God speaks
all that comes out are holy (nuclear) verses.
Under these phrases we educate our youth, they are
ordered to be the embodiment of nationalist bald eagles.
We become little toy soldiers puppeted by His divine hands. 
Red lipstick stains, white pure skin and blue jeans.
“We the people” are blinded by Slater's industrial smog. 
“We the people” allow our men, our people, other humans
to be used as targets. Fathers teaching their young boys
to shoot at burlap potato sacks and bean cans in backyards. 
May 26

observing mothers and fathers (and their habits)

So this is what heaven truly is? The first unseen breath of Spring
a tender, encapsulated touch meant only for their offspring.
Changing Father Winter’s fur into Mother Spring’s clothes.

His cold stone fists, the ones that molded the framework
for their children's crib, are met with her own warm, rooted hands,
the ones that grab rugged bedrock and cushion the dewy bed.

Raw buds begin to bloom with the new season, but Frost
(kin to Winter’s chill), laces their limbs with a glaze that leaves
their young children stationary in time, neverland babies. 

Until the sun brings Springs babies blankets, watching them
clutch to a dream long abandoned in the moon's haunted grin.
Once again, a mother is left to restore their children’s lively color. 

So this is what living truly is? Balancing on the wispy cusp
between the reminiscence of Father Winter’s unsaturated quilt
May 24


You see, his body never made it
To the city of angels.
Lit by Purgatory's divine lights.
Oh, he would have loved the sight.

To see chaos rolling in masses.
Down the boardwalk and past the ocean,
But his body did not make it there,
Therefore he could not see their despair. 

He wanders the yard when night stirs.
Sits in the garden beside his beloved's favorite.
An Iris painted in his ravens curled dream,
An Iris coddled with early morning sheen. 

He marvels at the drooping wings
In all of their midnight-colored glory.
Oh, how he wishes the mourning dove a raven.
Oh, how he wishes to see his lover again.

May 21


Sun, round and blazing, sets
Over the desolate desert planes.
Under the earth, it tries to retreat
To the north, seeking change. 
Barely in gasping reach
Of the soul's cold hands that stir in an
Undying circle they can not breach. 
North becomes but a myth on this
Dreaded Southbound road.

May 20

With love, a child of the Earth

May 15
poem challenge: Music

an encounter with a mortal angel

the past presents itself
in the future. clear as the sight 
from the edge of land to near infinity.
salty-peppered ashes are laid gingerly
with the longing bitter-sweet taste 
of this drifters forgotten someday. 

waves from the vastitude bring
boundless shells that sprinkle
across the shoreline, imitating
the scattered glass shards from 
broken beer bottles on the
gas stations lamplit asphalt. 

we said salutations. chuckled at the
silliness in this coincidence. there is
a resemblance with how the moon
idly sings to the tide and how we
seldom spoke to each other. 

and just like that. the old moment 
in thought is lost, and i am awoken
from my nostalgic daze in memory
to the rhythmic sound of the moon
leisurely bidding the tide in
to carry on their annual song. 
May 14


I don’t remember
Falling, but I still have 
The scars from when I
Touched the hollow earth,
And I screamed Bloody Mary
For God to save me. 

How did you build me?
Did you ransack essence from unholy angels,
And mold a frame that is coarse to the bone
That no one sober would ache to caress? 

Am I only meant for the corrupt?
I fathom that your only purpose is to knead
My dominance into extinction. Exploit my
Hollow and unhallowed cage. Your
Cupidity violates my fresh carcass.

I want to reclaim what’s left of it.
Reconstruct the ligaments without his blood
While scouring for a new skeleton to
Fabricate these new untouchable walls. 

But his hands still lay claim on the plaster
And this old soul house quivers 
When the wind flushes against it like a blanket. 
This house is dissembling burnt church roots
With no vacancy for the pardoned.