Wednesday, June 25, 2014

No More Blind Dates Please

Your glass of wine speaks to me more than your lips do. You've gone pale ale while the wine keeps it rouge all through fermentation. Has your brain gone dry or do you have lock jaw? Let me help you. I will order some gelato to keep it from freezing up. Bad move? I didn't know you were lactose intolerant. What's my sign you ask? The stars don't govern my life, but if I were to choose I would be somewhere between the Orion's Belt and Steamers Lane right now. I guess we're incompatible. No use exploring.

Thursday, June 19, 2014


Girls fly around him like finches in a dry fountain. They try to take a dip but he never gives. Even in his age he has never once opened when it was meaningless. He will feel when he knows and if he doesn’t know then he will wait cautiously as they attempt to gently remove his wilted feathers. Sometimes when he drinks he feels more like himself, or at least a part of who he used to be. He forgets that the part he lost was not really him, it was only a temporality that he shared. The empty place that remains is not reserved for a new wing. He knows that only he can fill the space and he looks for a life of eight years lost to explore. There are treasures of experience he lacks, but the care for another blocks his ambitions of being young again. Separation is his fountain of youth, but he is swimming like a 200 year old sea turtle in a pond of tadpoles. Only Darwin would be interested in his  slow paced love life.

Thursday, June 5, 2014

Sleep Induced

Comfort eyes
Emotionally Lobotomized
Stony lids weigh

Dreamy dawn WAKES my face
Endless walls                          to sky
from ground

A broken heart and set to foot
Moving legs
Run away

Waves of of red breaking memories
             from land to shore

No escape
dead end

Tuesday, June 3, 2014


Cratered faces of time never heal.
Just ask the moon.
A scar here, a stitch there.
Powdered paint is for the feminine peel,
layering their sun spotted skin.
"It's natural," they say,
"to cover the decay."
But not for time worn men.
We don't use makeup.
It's not for us.
We are a different class of human;
somewhere beyond age
and never able to cover up.
Love is beyond us.
Looks keep out company,
even a simple conversation.

Friday, May 30, 2014

Trading Purpose for a Tide

Sinking teeth in Sex and Wax.
Coconut, so soft like gum,
a solid grip applied to fiber and glass.
Rubbing, humming beach melodies,
each circle a rhythm, a wave, and story,
one wipeout bigger than the whale.

Not legend or hero, but self
and free of duty and debt.
He lives, sleeps on sand,
bathes in virgin shores
unshaved with fruit and
wood and rain.

Still past lives on
through mind, and trunk
in prints of novelty.
The broken spine of books,
and tales of life with wealth,
love and empty bottles, lies.

So lost among the norm
of copied life, he fades
and breaks the ties of
given name and right.
Hoisting sail, a guide through
breath of storm and swell.

In peace he found the blue,
the white wash falling, rolling
resting and receding.
No fear nor purpose
drives his life, but time through
moon, the wind and sun.

Monday, May 5, 2014

Free write, non stop. Unorganized thoughts

My thoughts shatter to bring the lost past through the front and swept out with the glass that catches light like a burnt piece of celluloid on a roll that is fading from the years of display, all gathering dust and air. Make me deteriorate into dreams that fade when the rest wake up. There I am living and time I will fade without influence. We touch, we love and we die. What follows we still wonder and pretend not to wonder. One life guaranteed, fragile and little under our control. The situation of being in the hands of another is dangerous and yet without it we do not live because of the lack of response, that voice and thoughts of another. Who felt you this week? They may not tell you to look and so you are a passerby, a slave to your bruises and the cuts on your mind. When the blue wind blows and the red river dries up you will not be looking back. Only they can save what you left for who? No one in particular. Just a few words, everlasting emotion so long as it is written in a loop. This paper is me in the flesh. I still live in these pages. You will find me here...

Monday, April 28, 2014

Pull me out of the past

The broken beat has spilled and drained the years of life all lost in age and waiting for the break of thought's persistent weight.

But still the change is less foreseen than planned escape to see the new and now we left in failing taste, a hope for being separate in the blame.

And when we run from life in arms we're looking back as time moves on. A blind beginning we will stake a claim in fear of passing through the shame.

I'm one, I'm over feeling hate. An open chest inviting few. The brave and understanding know to patch the torn and wasted blue.

Friday, April 18, 2014

A sappy broken heart post

My heart shivers because it has lost heat. It is frantically searching for what went missing. It asks the brain for answers. It tries to live in empty spaces where memories once were, but only the images are left behind, no one to hold on to. My heart is an empty room waiting for a lover who will never come home. Afraid to open the window and let out the stale air. Afraid to let another visit and stay a while. My heart forgets to breathe. It is weak, filled with cracks from the dry spell of emotions. My heart needs to run free. My heart needs to let go.

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Sitting at the SLC Roasting Co.

It helps to be around strangers. There are so many different types of people here. It makes the world feel less small right now. This is where I want to go to forget the past. In a banana coconut latte I burn the memories. These are the flavors of escape. Their warmth melts anxiety straight through my chest. I feel soft, like clay sitting in the window, ready to be sculpted. Now I just need a sculptor. Where is she? I wait patently to meet her. What shape will I become from her influence? I hope for something different. I hope for something good.

Sunday, January 26, 2014

Call Center

Upright I sit in fear of the Oso who eats the floor. The man who feeds on our diversions. We are his stepping stools. His stairs to the upstairs. Like magnets to my fingertips the thick black keys pull me in. The screen stairs back at me. It's not a contest but technology knows no end to games. It waits obsessively for the next case, the next tab, the next page. A flash of red and a voice hits the brain like a tambourine. A flood of information pours down the ear canal and all I want is a problem, not the whole war. I cover my walls in memories, reminders of the life outside this florescent lit strain on the retina. We seek a little sunlight-nothing more than a distant window can be seen, only if you dare to stand up to the shadow in the corner of the room. Through that door is a portal only he can enter and exit, unless your are invited. Do I wish to be invited? No! I prefer to stay with my compaƱeros, waiting for the Oso to stroll through the endless cubicles of slavery.