• 2017

The Cloud


I whispered about weakness

But they gave me a microphone to do it


I told them of the beauty of my small stone town

So they ran a highway right through it


I lifted my arms to pass the gifts onto you

So they held me aloft

And espoused everything I do


Even tears can be made to fill a bucket

Even the raven can be asked to see what lies above it


This cloud we breathe out

Share and pass, lung to lung


From the high office tower

To where the tired brooms are hung


I will whisper lamentation

Spit vitriol and venom

So long as it rings true

Wrapped in raw throats

And torn denim


To be spurned by their searchlight

A knife through heaven’s blue

So that the secret path remains open

In darkness

To you

The Same Cave


I clawed my way over steep, sharp gray teeth

To climb above the murderous waves

Crashing at my ankles

So that I could stumble up the slippery rock

Toward the cave where you once were


The mouth slowly opened

Judging my every step 

Every ounce of being that had betrayed you

The arms that held you in secret places

That would later repel you

Hang limp by my sides

As I have surrendered 

To the chilling of blood in my veins

If only to sit

Where you once sat


You sat here

Amongst the bats and darkness

Waiting for my kiss

Alone yet wrapped in youth and longing

I was but a staircase away


You opened the way 

And I waltzed in 

With no care for the stain

The oil of my fingers would leave

No thought to the crashing in of stalactites 

That cradled your holy loneliness

And I wept only for myself


I was sure to carry no tears with me

Upon this final journey to the cave

Alone with no faith

In the waves of time

That aided in separating us

No hope in a whisper on the wind


Just a dedicated meditation

Upon a cold wet floor

Where you had dreamt of something

Far more pure

Than what I could procure 

In this late hour



  • 2016

A Hole


There is a hole in winter

There is a plastic wrapper sitting

Where I had thought to find your note


There is a hole in the weather

There is water rising around my shoes where
I’d hoped to find a new canvas

To stretch out on


There is a hole in our intent

Like a window that cannot

Keep out the cold


There is a blind spot on the mirror

So large I cannot know 

If tears cross paths with the drops

Left by the damp warm air 

That slithers up
From the gulf


There is a hole in my mind

There is a gap

Where our bridge was to be drawn

With words that pressed against 

What we knew as real


A ship sails in the night

Its foretold counterpart that 

Should have passed

does not arrive

Nor crosses the crescent moon with its

Crucified mast


There is only the echo on the waves 

Of the men who built the port

On which smaller men

Sail toothpicks of investment from


There shall be no sovereign handshakes

And there shall be no snow upon the bow


The captain eats his meats nervously

Twitching as each orderless moment passes


They Still Make Candles in my Village


They still make candles in my village

My house is brown, wood from a storybook I borrowed

Or that my grandmother gave me, I can’t remember

I hear the generals are coming


But they still make candles in my village

I hear the people in the large town that glows across the mountains

Don’t need them anymore

I hear that is where the armies will meet


But my village is small

My friend comes to visit when he knows I am alone

And they still make candles here


One day I will venture over those mountains,

To see what is new, to see all the progress they have made


But there is a girl in my village

Her soft cheeks glow when it’s cold

And the snow warms me when she passes my road


They say she disappeared behind a path not far 

From where we stand together now


They still make candles here,

So I took one

And brought it to the crossroads where I think

She may have left us

There’s a strange arrangement of stones

Tucked beneath a tree just to the left of where the path grows dark

So I lit my candle

And it was for her


I skip along, along, along

The winding little creek

My eyes are more the merrier

Though I know I start to weep


They still make candles in my village

Though my friends are leaving town

I have tried to carry their books for them

But for the mountains and the unturned stones

Now I must leave them on the ground