Category Archives: Poetry

Cortical Arguments

I saw you sitting there, Nate

and I was speaking in my head

wanting  to put hands on you as the veteran, your friend, your brother in service

spoke about suicide.

He read a poem that addressed the fact that every 65 minutes, a veteran commits suicide & that if a vet pops himself and nobody is around to hear it, you better start listening harder.

And maybe it was because my period had just struck or I was tired in the eyes, but wide awake and tangled in the electromagnetic field between our ribcages & the accelerating heart that kept trying to drive me closer

Fighting an instinct to be there with you. For you.

I don’t know you.

The limbic mammalian heart spins carousels of peach and dandelion mist

& the neo cortex halts it with context:

“You’re just trying to seem cool & like you don’t need him, but in your pride, you’re pushing him away. He wants you to sit with him. That’s why he keeps looking back” Every syllable from my beating heart pumped blood into my cheeks while the 200 million years worth of biotechnology plugged into my cranium formed a rebuttal:

“Yeah? And let’s say you do go sit next to him, put a hand on his knee – on his shoulders, wrap your arms around his chest from the back and nestle your face into his bent neck? Let’s say this isn’t actually something he’s comfortable with just yet – or even anything that he wants. Let’s say your argument is an irrational, oxytocin-doped rush of estrogen because you’re programmed to form strong bonds with potential mates so that you can ensure reproductive success for your non-existent offspring. Let’s just say that it makes your impulses biased. What makes you so sure that it would even be appropriate to put your arms so familiarly about his shoulders on the second occasion you’re meeting him as a lover – fourth occasion total?”

The passionate heart is ready to burn down cities, singing ballads as the scarlet of wreckage singes the blue velvet of the sky “Weren’t you just reading about the isolationism of American culture that forbids such physical intimacy & open displays of affection & how it’s the reason we have no value or amount of genuine culture? You are alive and this WAS a real moment, but it’s passed now and by the sounds of the effeminate guy reading a poem about his experience as a gay man in the military, it’s safe to say it wouldn’t exactly come off right, now would it? So HAVE your isolation. At least make up your mind. And by ‘make up your mind’ I mean realize that this inaction is just another thing that makes you dead. Paralyzed by fear that you might be too real, yet too proud & sophisticated to call it fear. Might let your humanity show & be rejected for it. So you would rather be fake and accepted.”

So you weave through the crowd and stand closer.

Then maybe you wait another poem & this time the legs fail when you’re directly behind him. He’s clutching his arms on a collapsible stool that you can’t imagine is comfortable, but heart pleasantly reminds you with a wink & a sneer that a backless stool affords you access to groping him from behind.

squeezing his normally too-tall head to your chest – letting the spiritual spindles of his heart strings fuck her right in the electromagnetic field – so you pause before sitting next to him, so the blood might drain from your cheeks.

Just when brain is about to reroute legs to the exhibition halls because “we don’t need him anyway. there’s a whole museum here. Just because you drove an hour to spend the weekend with him doesn’t mean you have to be here for him, or even spend time with him…”

I saw your hat on the ground. Brian was singing show tunes at this point, and nobody in the crowd really knew how to feel about it anyway.

“Before the tone shifts again…”

So legs skirt over & plopped down next to you –

eyebrow shrug & tight lipped derpy smile to ensure him that “I don’t know why I’m here. Heart made me do it. Don’t read too much into it”

Heart, still cocky from her assumed victory, continues to plot the perfect moment to put your hand on his knee while the poet inside of me considers what an act of humanity it would have been

if I had carved through the crowd, the moment it dawned on me that you might want someone to lean on,

cut through the bystanders all slack jawed and wide eyed at the Veteran’s admissions of his own suicide attempts

and put my hand on one of your slumped shoulders.


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Filed under observations, Poetry


Jon and Zach have the same teeth and smile-cracked eyes

Zachary and Nick have the same neck and smile,

eyes always glint the same across families

if we’re attracted to anything in a mate, it’s the eyes

that first hatched into our view,

a spaceship pervading the strung mobile, spinning spinning

then novelty – tufts – foreheads — Faces!

the new spectacle tucked side by side

by flesh, enclosed in people, the eyes were the real entities, never

“daddy” or “mama!”

parents think themselves mighty proud for their visage to produce a label,

for this so-called understanding to emerge in their smart, smart babies.

But for the baby, it was only ever the eyes they spoke to.

when I’m despondent and depressed, I will not look into eyes,

when I’m confident and self assured, I speak only to eyes

when I tell you that I love you, I tell your eyes, because they are the ones that see me

I may find a blind lover, that they might love my voice, and my touch

but nary a love is started outside of the eyes.

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Filed under Inspiration, observations, Poetry, Thoughts

Don’t Leave Me for Dead

We are the divine beings sliding rusty nails into our virgin soles.

The walking awake, table full of bread

Oh God, so empty and broken and already dead

In energy’s absence, an inactive volcano

being eroded by wind and water

Oh God! I just want to feel something!

Give me pain, anger, anything but stillness

One day, I’ll stretch my neck to stay awake

and it will flock off without my body

One day, I’ll find the determination to pluck my marbles from their sockets

my sick eyes searching for connection in my comatose corpse

The answer can’t be not thinking about it – Truth!

Truth leaves my guts for the gulls

I’m torn and motionless, raped by emotion’s kiss

gobbled by the guilty gutter

staring at stones

Do I not have the gumption to drag myself home?

Have I resigned to take residence in the filth and delay?

I’ve forgotten to walk and now I must stay.

I need someone to look at me and know I’m not okay

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The Lover’s Lament

The Father

I see myself made in your image

the blind standing before a house of mirrors
my reflection talking back
and aching before me in whispers
but all you can do is poke sensitive needles through
my eyes, between the blue
that we share, Oh Father who art in heaven,
tell me more of our hallowed ghouls
stop speaking to me of talking and sing! You, mightiest of kings
with honor and stoic gladness,
you pivot on white heels
and all I follow are footsteps
The Lover’s purpose in life is to live lone
to remember the home from which we’re thrown,
divorce the king and keep his throne
The Son
 You, the object from which my self reflects off
 Brilliant drunkard, you slur to me
you sip and you keep raw insides
where they came from.
Your perceptive perspective isn’t something you make
for all the facades you frequently fake;
I’d like to see you in a state of complete wreck
I want to see your tears
balancing on the sallow edge of your cheek
If I could be there when you lose everything
I think I could understand your distance
The Lover’s purpose in life is to live lone
to uncurl the knots from which I’m prone
to strip the body from its bone
The Holy Spirit
 Drawn in by your self destructive tendencies
adrenaline jet stream heart beat echoes
ripples out waves of wishes for the suicide of my self
explaining to gawked earlobes that your genius is madness
stroking my sadness
palms aching to be placed on your knee
and that only.
my heart bleeds and comes undone
and simultaneously seeps into no one
mourning your absence though you’re always here
the living dead in its most reverent pains
I dip into your trauma when you cut the reins
Don’t hold my hand, but Please!
Don’t settle for a good time.
I need the familiar threads of your patterns to weave into mine
you have me all wrapped up around fingers as twine
your brine stained eyes will never not sting mine
So I mind the voice that makes the moan,
removing the melody from the tone
because the Lover’s purpose in life is to live lone.

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Filed under Philosophy, Poetry, Thoughts

Gratitude Prayer

I have gratitude for all sentient beings. I accept that life

is consciousness

is suffering

is sonder.

I am grateful to each object that has touched me today

outside of its own dizzy dance

and altered me, however small, through our interactions.

I am grateful to bacteria for expertly maintaining our environment.

I am grateful to the sun for giving us life and to the ozone atmosphere for keeping it.

I am grateful for water in its endless incarnations.

I am grateful for earth and nature and plants for being our covert teachers through the changes and challenges of life.

I am grateful to animals for their pure existence and their abilities to survive without hateful destruction.

I am thankful for people.

Every human with a struggle, every individual without a clue,

every person doing their best with what they have, every bodhisattva learning,

every twinkling particle of God in its own unique expression of our sameness.

I am thankful for the lessons I’ve learned, the struggles I’ve endured, and the challenges ahead of me.

To silence.


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Filed under Inspiration, Poetry, Thoughts

primordial waters

the removal from warmth, children, where we lay buried deep in the muck of our mothers
the clumps of cells,
the spewing and spawning of pestilence
as it congeals about in petrie dishes with hearts
cohesive cultures multiplying into infinity
don’t you yearn to rush fingers to it?
through it?
to break apart the crumbling human kind
ashes to igneous
dust to the deep
Earth’s innermost chambers where stone goes to sleep
those primordial waters
wherein life we keep

I once heard a pebble cry for heaven
too heavy to float,
he was crushed and disintegrated into
the rising and falling of swells
caught in tumultuous God
expelled into oceans of crackling magma
his particles smeared like ash across my mother’s thumb
the guru pulled him in again until her stomach grew
and the parts of him that I shared, and water, his sister, too
ascended heaven, bent in brethren
and fell again as dew

have you churned prayers
which sprinkle away as ash in winding breath
and felt each feather blacken your coat as it melted away?
your sickness is tucked up on the mantle
where a fire heats it below,
bellowing unto it in seductive whispers:
“multiply. be more. overflow upon this house, this corpse”
And I’m deciding if I should know or forget.

Recall your commons
the commuting hemoglobin, burning scarlet with passion for oxygen
asphyxiated on sea shell sounds
going round and round
your dying makes no sound

(and your ears forgive their pound
but you’ve sunk into primordial waters
ashes to amniotic)

and your cells do not beat drums
but they are the drums and the mallets
a tongue satiating its own pallet
I stroke my own wrist
because my nakedness won’t bear it
eyes lock onto eyes, for diverting will scare it
the charms on your arms are the shackles that bind you
closing my eyes so their devises won’t mind you

I stare down water from my perch and cease to see it
I stare at water long enough and seem to be it

I know who I am when your laugh rifles through me

sound off like a shot gun
and explode into me

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Filed under Poetry

Hey Stella!


The princess whisking herself back into the clutches of the dragon.

She catches her own skirt on the turrets of the castles she’s climbed over,

only to give up at the sight of the sunrise,

climbing back down into the dungeons of the castle,

curling into the warm claw of the beast’s hand,

because it shed a single tear when it realized it had nothing more to protect.

The prince is outside waiting on his steed,

and I’m telling him to leave me alone –

Come back next week.

Come back when I can get over the wall,

it’s too difficult now, and I’ve grown tired.

I’ll need the rejuvenating bite of the wolf in my side before I have the death I need to walk through the gate.

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Filed under Poetry