Empty, the cages that we

build around our lives.


Empty, the cages

that we build inside our minds.


Empty, the words used

to describe, how it feels for it to be so

empty inside.


Full, I pound my fists and scream to be

let out. 


Full, I drag you down.


But today, emptiness throughout.

But I am claiming, it is empty, so who am I?





Empty, the thoughts I have and

Empty, my lima bean toes.


Empty, today I think and

Empty, tomorrow grows. 


                The spark

                inside of me, off in the distance

                draped in the moon,


I won’t stop until these

walls are not Walls. 



Traffic Beach

Oh, from another angle I am sad.

And today there is too much food in me 

and the vines are warping the pathways to my brain.


Oh, from another angle, I am enchanted, sitting in silence,

listening as the cars pass by, waves lapping, waving goodbye to the light.


Oh, from which angle is it true?

For me, for You. For every which thought that resides in my head.


I will die comfortable in my sleep, one day. When the voices hath lain their differences aside and let me rest for a fortnight while I travel the cosmic interlude of Time. 

Now I lay here, staring out through filters, filters of realities and dreams to discover my imagination is Here.


Oh, how wonderful it is that the quiet is Home and the filters all need rest.


Poetic Atmosphere

Poetic Atmosphere

You settle over my skin, heating my eyelids, and we prayplay.


Poetic salivation

You are my lover beaming inside of my chest.


Vibrational veins

Atoms kiss atoms spoon atoms merge





And two,



Precious woven words of sunshine ribbon

Poetic sinew.


My body, a glass:

I’m shaking from the ice poured in,

a big, sloppy tongue grandfather clock

striking 6 through my windpipe.

My heart is beating at the gun trigger pulse in my fingers.

There is a thin wall inside the curvature of my skull,

made of rubber, sliding like wax.

The King,

here to destroy their thinking.

Those who don’t seem to be all too nice.

Change that I can.


Buddhism teaches you how to die, she says, and I take this to heart.

And tonight I see, that the silence, the energy we can spend in the light, away from the dizziness of living, makes us upright. And I quiet down finally, you angels who carry me, and listen to the cloud carried comforts you sent me.

You have always been right.


“This World isn’t Real”


Fingers are Jazz dancing with

radiant pulses pulsing

a warm, smooth etheric liquid across my neck.

Let us play beyond the layers of self-masochism beyond the beyond.

My focus is your focus. Can you stand to be this focused?

Can we gaze into each other’s eyes until doubt, anger and grief purge themselves out of our fists or my voice or our feet?

Can we dance on the halls of my anxiety, or run as fast as we can?

I think I might be done here, for my walls are closing in.