top of page



In nights that fall upon the Earth

Shadow-slinking, pouring down

Into a well, swirling,

Congregating in deep gusts,

Windswept snow fading to black

As it carries back up into the air.

Failed attempts to go backwards,

Trying to unfall.




Down on the verge of the sea

Dirt shifting soil drips like gasoline

Falling down in between.

Plants cannot gain hold.

The only life found there

Are the stubborn, war-worn molds

Trained by millions of years

Of fighting through time, stories untold,

Known only through their successors,

Who pass them along in a language

Created without the purpose

Of conscious inspection—

Voiceless whispers of existence.




Blizzard Thoughts


When you can taste the wind,

Which pulls at your scarf,

Desperately trying to find sanctuary

In your lungs.


When you can hear the cold,

The world crisped by a glaze of ice

Life stilled,

Posing, ready to be painted.


When you can feel the dark,

Smothering you, to keep you

Unaware of the bleak whitescape

You wander through.


When you can smell the spirit

Hidden in faraway houses,

The hot meals cooking and

Hearts burning somewhere not here.


When you can see home,

Close now,

And finally,

You can rest.




Black figures against the white.

Determined silhouettes in a night

Greyed and flattened by snowfall.

The shadows of snow on snow

More blue than the sky,

Seen by the orange light of

Sidewalk lamps standing alone

Searching for a path lost underneath

Winter months.

And the wind steals laughter

Out of the mouths of travelers

Huddled by a fire.

Time-slashing dread spider

Lethargy carrier

A disease that chills the veins

But warms the body

Lulls it into sleep

Creature comfort

The sun soothes

But limbs are frozen

Lead that cannot be woken




Your future before you and you want to grab it take it mold it

But it’s just out of reach:

a painting in a museum.

velvet rope separating you from fantasy on the wall

a prophecy under stage-light

but reaching out, touching it

You’ll smudge the masterpiece that could be, that is

in the World of your dreams.

Facts and effort pummel hopes,

Crush them under the too-heavy showers of spring

The season of new life ends itself. The spring is brittle

Homemade English toffee

Crumbling all over the table,

And there it is again

So easily back in the routine, in the ease

The smooth-going pattern,

Life like syrup, spreading across the plate

Soaking into everything,

soggy with sloth.




There’s something soothing about the silence of the night:

How it slides down the throat like oil air.

Some mild and immense liquid convergence of colors,

all cast in that high contrast hue of iron blue,

and with that same sweetmetal taste.

And like it, permeating the blood,

now present everywhere at once

in the blood, the body, the brain




Productivity is a foreign nation.

I’ve heard of it often,

I know what sights I should go see,

I have even visited a couple times.

But my flights there always seem

To get cancelled or delayed or rerouted

(and I’ll admit there was one time

I went to the wrong gate and missed

My flight altogether. Tears fast

As droplets on the windows during take-off)

But through it all I never doubted

That this place existed

Though it seemed strange

Most people only drove a few hours to get there

While I had three connections and 5 hours of layovers.

I’ve checked 2 bags and arrived with one.

Honestly, I don’t know if there’s much to be done.

I leave a part of me each place I go

And soon I fear there won’t be enough

Left of me to even remember

If I’ve lost something worth looking for.

bottom of page