found again
fallen lips
dripping near

like rainfall
humming soft
under moonlight

moonlit blue
one body
looking out

to nothing
seeing what
false motion

returns from
those lips
and dances

all alone
to a love

Broken Soil

The ground is not as whole as it once was before. The earth is irreparable now, its motion not lent toward stability but cascade. Its silence is kinetic, roaming like a dream given to lusting eyes, and retreating back into that carelessness when the soil begins to break. I am broken soil. They cannot see it, enraptured to those parting schemes: momentum they cannot begin to stop. They are blameless, but god how it feels to drift, waning in that effort to be known. It all breaks so easy. For me, love is just a place to be overlooked.


The old world and its endless sand
reaching forever like a broken star.
That is what we must hold–
against the night in its divisions
marching on toward the beaches
of homeward dreams.

And to think, how a spitfire must look
against those breaking waves, and
what songs the propellers
may of sung to that silence
when the whirring stopped
and one song fell to three.

It is the song of lost fellows
that now roams that lonely sky.
It plays and plays, brooding
from the voiceless eyes
of unmatched shoes.

Yet still rings that call of hope:
we must go on,
white flag surrendered
only when there are none
left to see it buried.

Hope is a civilian horizon:
the promise of boredom, of love,
and the chance to embrace, as strangers,
the mutual uncertainty of this new world,
and maybe, more simply, find happiness
over dinner and a movie.

These are new eyes and new songs,
and though that ocean still swells
with the names of those voices lost,
they are reclaimed in victory,
despite its cost.

A Rose

I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about . . . like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees.

-The Great Gatsby

Cigarette Love Letter

Call it chemical,
ashtray amour,
candlelight by coil.

The mist feels rosy
on that lonely face,
and really,

poison never looked
so much like love.

It’s enough
just to breathe:
to wither,

forestalled like
still warming embers
in discarded ash.

Touched to those lips,
love is wounded:
free to bleed,

to erase, to wander–
held to a moment
that must end

in a heart
blown to smoke.


There is no collective imagination:
that is death.
Scale it monochrome,
I will find cosmos
in the twilight,
rhythm in a voiceless page.
And when color retreats
again to stonewalls,
I will bathe in transmissions
of those stellar stations,
gold-plated on the Horizon
like Apollo’s solar wings.

Already the mythic
ecstasy of that capital
aurora claims what it
deems selective in the absence
of the uniform,
yet we are all still
children of the stars:
free in our pursuit
to their expression,
both holding and bending,
together alone.


Take me
sinking, leather bottles
hand to hand, white heat,
on a road to Barcelona.

Paint my hands, blade, and flag
with the lust of a matador.
Give life to the dust
with my heel—

hear it dripping:
bullpen, mad snout,
hooves carving
runways in the earth.

This is sickness or it is love:
wound of forgotten nights
Hemingway dreamed once
before a melting sun—

And the still beating heart
of those wistful nights in love,
too close
to end in steel.