vast and unforgiving,
hardpan and caked clay
beneath the rustle of sands,
the swirling of their dresses and shifts;
deep, deep, deep is the water and
here is nothing; day and night,
lifeless and predictable as
the rotation of a foreign planet.
Here are my deep and shallow places;
my sands and my dead seeds,
here I am, standing in the thirst,
here I am, digging for promises
and rumors.

Hope is worse than knowing;
tell a man there’s gold in a hill and
he’ll destroy the hill, the hill will destroy him,
and nothing of note will be found.
Tell a man there’s nothing here,
and he will move to green prairie
and ignore those deep, deep,
deep waters.

powers that be

Empty threats from empty men
flood out from a high tower;
empty thrones and empty crowns
hold falsities of power;
and man has not invented yet
a crop that blooms when fed by lies,
but wealth is close, and power closer:
and power does or power dies.

Microcosms (and dandruff)

Within the least lay lesser, still
slighter repetitons;
infinitesmal patterns.
Is any particle of a rose not a rose?
is the dandruff on the floor, the bedsheet,
is this anything other than me?
And is a single letter,
devoid of context, rhyme, function,
is a single letter not mere fine-tuned dandruff,
shaped by, and shed from,
an endless sea of scalps?


You can’t grow roses in a snowglobe,
you can’t grow anything in that
cheap confetti,
and you can’t pretend you’re outside in the sun,
and you can’t escape your regrets,
when you’re locked in a room for two months or more and
there are sounds in the walls and screams at the door and
the world is flooding and burning and worse and
you’re just sitting at home,
plinking seeds in fake earth.


you wish for lemons but
life won’t give you lemons,
life won’t even give you apples.
Life gives you rocks,
boulders too large to move, life gives you
stones and
asks you to chew them,
life gives you shit and
claims it’s a smoothie.
Life can’t be trusted,
not with lemons,
not with rocks,
not with anything important;
reject whatever life offers
in all its cruelty,
and build something kind
on your own time.

less than friend

I came for glory,
bloodied, storied,
wishing on what evils lurked in the sky;
I came for you.
I know.
It’s true,
I hoped you wouldn’t feel this reason why.

You held my head to the ground
like the most disloyal hound
and I am less than that,
less than friend, less than dust,
so small and savage in my hope that you
will turn, favorable, with eyes renewed
upon me, seeing at last
everything I want you to.


The jive, the lie, the secret hollows,
the craft, the guilt, the crowd that follows;
charisma, unchained, soon flies
with confidence, virtue, and loftier lies.

Ask not what lurks beneath the surface
of placid lakes without disturbance,
for dwells within the murky reaches
a slimy snaking swell of leeches

Growing New Bones

The boy with bright blue feathers
sprouting in his hair, could sing and
change the weather, could laugh and
fall in love.

The boy with bright blue feathers
could not learn multiplication tables,
and the teacher called the principal, who met with
the councilor, who spoke in hushed tones
with the parents:

The boy with bright blue feathers
blossoming from his back
has no future in insurance, or
accountancy, and no real talent
for numbers.

The boy with bright blue feathers
would grow new bones one day,
gnarled and feathered,
strong wings, strong enough
to carry him away from here.