a hopeless song

maybe if i get high again

i could feel that senseless

emotion, that total immersion


maybe if i saw you again

i could catch that intangible

floating above us in our youth


maybe if i sat on my old bed

i could smell that hopelessness

seeping into the stained mattress


should i just take one hit

just a hit of dope

to reach


should i just take a drag

pull myself along

to breathe


if only we can capture

the goal that nostalgia

proffers beyond sobriety


if only this song were for you

i’d bury it in the sand

so we could only hear its muffled breaths

we won’t care

we won’t care

until glaciers haunt

our coastlines

we won’t care

until black monoliths

melt but move with impetus

we won’t care

until monstrosities block

NYC’s sunrise

we won’t care

until slush the color

of asphalt will wash up

we won’t care

until the evidence

chokes our trash infested beaches

we won’t care still

because we’ll all be dead

Feed the Piranhas

Curate This Philly has published my poem, “Feed the Piranhas.” The piece delves into the mind of a caricature artist on the boardwalk who has PTSD and his reaction to the crowds and fireworks.

Feed the Piranhas

let poetry die

yesterday I wanted

poetry to die


today I write

what’s beyond my mind


the lord’s my shepherd

there’s nothing alive


I’m a lamb

who wants


the nothing’s my guide

when everything’s consumed


practice a ritual

unknown but shown


tomorrow I’ll find

what I need to survive


the lord is my gift

given to me by nothing


I crave an apple



but won’t give in

never give in


to the evil within

let poetry die


New Jersey

at Ben Franklin bridge’s height

one can see halfway across New Jersey

a land so flat and so green

it almost looks like paradise

and although salvation

lies far beyond this state

it’s good to feel that way

every now and then

to feel at the height

of a bridge to see the scattered

skeletons of Camden skyscrapers

to know beyond are farms and pines

suburban colonies

graphed developments

at first with natural names

Collingswood, Haddonfield, Cherry Hill

then unnatural names, townships

called by the names of colonizers

villages bearing names of lost tribes

exterminated people still roam

the barren pines, while cars collide

on highways stretched over unmarked graves

until finally the Atlantic Ocean arrives

a massive highway itself, littered with bones

of humans in chains, of slaves, of migrants

an inferno of water crushing bodies

centuries in transit

on the way to hell in life

en route to paradise in death

wherever that may be