haunt memory

an infant’s eyes

and what’s behind

how about when love’s denied

for the first time

the longing for milk

that look of anger

will it haunt memory

at what age will judgement

seize the child

the separation

the absence

the labeled cardboard boxes

filling the otherwise empty room


this is the change

that does not come about


this is the thought

of forgiveness lost


to the void


and yet love remains

even if it’s battered and abstract

False Prophet

False Prophet

A bizzare, surrealist experimental poetry performance I created in 2012.


An Average Urban Journey

Bodies litter stained floors

in this subway station as the head

piercing drone of trains rush

through tunnels, an anonymous man

throws his own body in front of a machine,

is crushed by unimaginable force.

I am unaware of this, sitting inside

the beast that killed this human.

We stop for a few moments,

a robotic voice announces

that there’s been organic

difficulties. The world won’t stop

and so we’ll move on after more machines

clean up the mess. There is nothing

to say about the dirt speckled

baby blue tiles that adorn the wall

I stare at beyond the blurry advert

that encases this compartment.

We begin to move again.

This is what happened:

we said nothing mattered

enough times that it actually came true.

Only a few don’t separate meaning

from life now. Emerging

from the underground I found

a poem in the sky then followed

my sour gut, ignoring more crumpled

bodies along sidewalks. Heavily armed

police everywhere. A rich and powerful

person enters an ancient marble temple

on 17th street. I walk towards the source

of spotlights roaming skyscraper walls

and then sit in a fabricated park to lick

the invisible moon above us with my feeble

thoughts. Again I get up to wander and worry

about death, then remind myself to allow

my feet to guide the rest and arrive

into the unknown.


Narrative to Life Beta

The human ignores the itches on its calves and behind its ears where inside its ringing. Both of them. Pain beneath skull could mean any number of things. Hunger is brought on by the insignificant. Machines make noises all the time. No matter what it can’t get away from cause and effect. An artist refrains from expressing the ambiguous spatter of sensory everywhere around. Detached from repetition, only responding to thoughts through an abstract, nondescript logic. One half of its brain shall perish in the soil, the other ascending beyond tangibility. Today I breathed for the first and last time. It is only the beginning because I will it to be. Right now. I am creating the present, and it is a continuum that will proceed into oblivion, but that also will be negated, negativity. All things must exist, since nothing really matters. We have been so worried about sin. Rightly so. You pray as much as you can. I don’t ever want this to stop. Suffering is beautiful. But only when you don’t suffer. I thought I bore my cross, but I guess I was wrong. Don’t look back. Just keep going. The blood and spit will both wash away. Human liquid runs its course. Look up at them and show your faded teeth. That’s it. Move along. Golgotha is everything. Or so the computer tells me.


In Memory

You fell to your death

in order to impress your peers

or maybe for yourself. To prove

something, but what, we don’t know.


The parking garage complex was vast

and the vertical drop exhilarating.


Painted styrofoam was the decoy,

a little ledge on which you thought

you could land, but couldn’t.


The owners wanted to keep up

appearances, and so did the morticians

for your viewing. A shocking event

when we all quietly considered the implied violence.


The guys you were with laughed when you did it,

until they leaned over their ledge and saw your crumpled body.


Now that’s all they’ll ever see.