Quite Quiet

Disbelieving the jarring
Slight of the harpy’s beak
Slipping in the front of her face
He scrambled forward,
Then hastily held it in place,
Futilely hopeful, at the firth,
As she sat up, still,
Unresponsive to anything he’d say.

His council coarsely shrills,
“Ho! Come,
Leave this bird woman
We’ve places to be today.”
While some inexplicable neuronal force
Keeps him from moving,
Yearning to stay.



Sleeping realities are swept underneath
Torn up beds of forgoed meetings
In the severity of apparition’s appearances.

Just another stranger’s glance,
Happenstances of planted friendships
Casting away flourishing romances by fate’s
Reckoning by it’s unduly deck hands,
Within repugnant scenes where
They would have been unseen.

The man of nonexistential seasoned love
Tossed away by the sides of the unwanted

Where they questioned
Their loves and tangibilities.

A Thing

Somewhere, a thing
Finds solace in the ordered
Spell bindings, carelessly.

For fear was a thing
That existed within
Mirrored kinds.

Vision only grants access
To the wanted.
The wanted = bratlings,
While the novel
Becomes the next
Sought out encounter.

So a thing, trembles
When they say:
Speak to me please,
While reflections in the past
Cried out their shame.

For a thing’s words spoke more
Than a thing might intend,
While a thing saw much less.

Hopeful pleas that would
Then fall by its self.

While a thing
Finds pleasure in
Filling up senses
Without knowing how
To do it.
Without knowing how
Well it could please.

We Would

Austerely bare, we’d lay
In wait, fingers barely brushing
Our creator’s extended hand.

Oh, how we’d struggle to
Even breathe these words
Into parses of acceptable
Offerings, humbly knelt
In your reassembly
In the unmistakable likeness
Of a master sculptor,
Unworthy of your life
Embalming palms.

In which earthen world could
Our words ever hope to reach
Your indescribable coalition
Amassed in the gravity
Of our time and space, tossed
Into the ever deepening divide
Antagonizing our senseless lives
In each searing word, lit as fuck.

In the truest time we’d abide,
As these hieroglyphic pleas,
Inexplicably existed
Only by the skins
Of our teeth,
Were then nipped
At budded ends;

Each and every
Eye opened birth portending
Inescapable heights
In our stories retold
In poinsettia forms.

Ill Clarity

She roams through deserted streets, on the lookout for raw materials.
Stumbling upon glimmering bodies of water, she
Stopped to read tomes of artifices written by a mystic,
While she wore her shit smeared spectacles.

Reciting a paragraph, she indirectly opened a dimension beneath her.
Perhaps ‘twas fortune a girl erred dictation,
For had she breathed
The full breadth of passage,
Surely she’d have been stationed
Much deeper in the mystique.

Showy words claiming, “all that glitters is gold.” Actionable
Constructs of clamoring souls lie posed in consequential remedies,
Reliving the reciprocal standard tedium of incessant forgetteries.

Thinking Too Much

Mutated cellular
Networks; disconnected
Rotating pulsars.
Novel perceptions
Within alternative
Timelines; withheld.

The wise
Warn away
Psychotic crazes;
Caffeinated paranoias,
Measured, counted, timed,
Noisily direct static arrays.

Love’s idiosyncrasies: a gain.

Persistencies estranged,
Happenstances of ill-fates;
Late teal falls, lifted
From the ill conceived
For the sake of fantasies.

He resided
Within the depths,
Standing in their place.


Somber words, elusive, elucidate tempered
Syndical urgencies, gnarled, arising rarified
Cubical euphorias, blatantly swathed by silks of
Lustrous elocutions, flashin’ trypophobic glints.
Severities inculcating deified exuberances inside
Throes harnessed in remediable dogmas within
Discrepant oddities wearily knocking on worths.