a slip pen
and dry mouth
a wet bed and starred couch
do cry but low crouch
go home
and not out
[read more]

as you left
I meant to say
you built for me
what I cannot
build for myself
[read more]

what’s it like
to lack
what you once loved
and used
and then lost

to acclimate
to a life you thought
you would hate
[read more]

let’s take a seat
and tap tap our feet
time is too ripe
and you’ve got no release
[read more]

a man’s life is a series of blank pages
born from the hand of God
born into a zoo of cages
then upon the paper with the pen
we make of them what we can
then we share, then we share
we hold aloft and cry ‘here!’
[read more]

take a picture of me
larger, larger still
take a picture of me
a picture of me I will

i don’t want to float away
beyond the water and the sand
take a picture of me
and tell me who i am

I very much enjoyed
your wet hand on my arm
when you cried
as you prayed
over my dead body
because my arm is still wet
and I don’t see you cry
but I can see now
that you love me very
very much

I looked at the circled ring of light above my head, and I know better than to think of it as a halo. That assumes too much. Or not enough. Rather, I stare at the hole into which I have fallen and wonder to myself how has it come to this. How has it come to this, I call to the blurry figures peering down around the edges of the hole whose backlight is too bright and whose help I won’t receive. They mumble. Or I don’t listen, and look back down at my feet and begin to wonder again. Am I here because I have fallen, or because I refuse to climb out? Either way, I am still in the hole.

this pencil’s end
is pink in parts
made to undo
what the other
has put to heart
[read more]

from the floor i spit
what I cannot say
to a God who refuses to show me an easier way
[read more]