The chorus of your making

With even hands I drew,
pulled back,
and let loose the arrow
whose head, dark as starless
night and crafted
in golden embers
of acacia, broke the
skin between ribs
protecting anxious lungs
and quivering heart.
For miles I followed
the uneven pattering
of hooves on parched
and hardened clay,
spotted bright with crimson
to where she lay,
her deep brown eyes
accepting and wide.
With my lips against
her nose her final breath,
cool in the Saharan sun
rustled my eyelashes as
I pulled the black obsidian
from her soft yet
weathered flank.

Her skin became yours,
baked and stretched
through ruthless winter heat.
Her ribs became your
backbone, carved
and shaped with
a knife made of her
thick and sturdy skull.
Her teeth became your
jewelry, embedded and gently
intertwined with tiny shells
into your neck.
Each stroke of your strings,
woven with her
tightened tendons,
sings a song of praise
for all she gave
for you to live.
Each pounding of
my palm upon
your belly echoes
the pumping of her heart,
that gave its final beat
for us to thank the rain,
the sun, the stars,
the trees, and earth
where she was born,
who formed you.
As sisters and brothers bound
by a blaze of smoke rising
to the moon, we call
her mother in our rhyme.

In a different blaze
of flames a different
song was sung
by tears on scorched
earth and screams choked
out by gas and pale,
unfamiliar hands.
I watched through
bloody rain as they
yanked you from
my loving fingers
and snapped your
precious neck with ease.
I heard our anguish
in your broken strings as
piece by piece
they tore apart
and laughed at you,
shriveling in a fire
of your makers.
The skies and trees and land
that birthed us took us home
with loving hearts
of lead; thunder rumbled
out our rhythm,
rains poured down
and lightning struck
with anger our song
you sung
again in tune.
And once more our
voices echoed out
the chorus of your making,
as wind against
the backs of creatures
with deep brown eyes
and bodies made
to give.

exquisite corpse

In dusty halls I lay awake and see

the dark and daunting creatures of the night;

Cremations sprinkle ashen, empty halls,

Archaic figures creep along the walls,

Each hungry for a little taste of me.

Their musty growls and throaty howls stir fright

And quiver even mighty hearts to stall.

In dusty halls I hear your vicious call,

The echo of my anguished cries your creed.

The slither of your tongue, your gruesome might

Have broken those left stained upon your walls.

But, me, I will not crumble, left to crawl

Like you through dank and narrow blackened seas

Of shattered souls and dreams in dusty halls.

love languages

In candlelight and a camera flash,
it was clear that I missed him.

In this place, after all this time,
nothing had changed.

In our smiles,
gritted through teeth

and gaping unsaid words,
our lies of okayness lay bare.

There’s different types of love:
tender love
fast love
deep, wild, passionate, kiss me till
the sun rises love.
But my favorite kind

-he paused,
his eyes snapping up

to look me
dead in the face-

Is forbidden love.
This one right here.
When you know you can’t have it forever
so you hold on to the moments you have
before they slip like stars into the sunrise,
even though they coat your throat with
burning bittersweet desire.

Laughter glittered around us,
the air yellow and sunny,

yet a
sadness dripped into his words,

lacing his whisper with
a sudden sobriety:

It’s a drug.
Being around you, I know
it’s no good for me, yet
I’ll take any piece of you
Just to taste it again,
The honey in your soul.

You’re a drug.
Knowing I can’t have you,
nothing fills the cavern in my chest
you left when you tore yourself
out of it, bleeding and beautiful.
It’s a war of attrition:
I’ll take down
anything, anyone,
with me to fight this war
between my heart
and my head.

I only stared at his honesty,
the bruised and pulsing truth

he served with his confession.
How silly,

that we loved so hard
we grew to hate it.

How fucking naive
to think that we would make it out alive.


At first,
one more pull to push back
the demons tearing on the skin
between my hair and skull,
to pulse stars to my fingertips and
electrify my creativity like the ashy
orange end between my blood red lips.
My vision blurs to twirling blackness,
speckled with ash I flick away
to smokey sweet oblivion as
ghostish foggy fire flows into my lungs,
and drowns my half-beating heart
in a plume of nicotine induced

and when they come-

Don’t move.     

     Hands on throat, ripping hair,
Resist, they’ll hit you harder-
Lay still.
     They want to hear your pain,
Their pleasure is your suffering-
Don’t scream.
     Aching, stinging, throbbing,
The writhing pain will dull-
Lay still.
     Monsters smell your fear,
The blood will dry eventually-
No tears.
     A sigh, a turn, a twitch,
The slightest move might stir them-
Lay still.
     Vicious if awoken,
Never wake a sleeping beast-
Don’t move.
     Quiet, soft and low,
You can hear them breathing-
Lay still.

like an R&B movie

most of that night is lost

to the haze of weed and wine,

save that photo of me laughing

with your arm holding me

from falling off the couch –


i had noticed the camera

pointed at us before you,

so my squinting, smiling face

is the main attraction

to most, but


i’m drawn to you

looking at me with love

burned in your irises

like the sativa leaves

we all shared that night


and i can still remember

how you looked at me after

that moment was saved

to the ether, so unaware

that we were being watched,


my hair stuck between

our lips and the merlot

still staining your smile,

intoxicating me as we kissed

in the darkness that follows


a flash.

Ticking Crocodiles

Time’s a bird

In dreamland: where

Clouds obscure absurdity-

Know nothing of the sour air, the

Insipidity that is reality;

Neverland, behind closed eyes, is closer,

Green grass grows there, and I heard

Clocks tick slower, even stop;

Raunchy pirates flaunt their swords;

Ostentatious fairies sprinkle wonder;

Crocodiles chase the cowards

Over, through, around your slumber.

Dreaming eyes see clearly

In the haze that floats and

Lingers in forever twilight, shielding

Effervescent stars and

Shrouding dreams in its moonlit luster.


On a high- unstoppable.

Nothing- no person, no thought,

no depressive state

can dampen creative sparks or

put a stopper in energy

pulsing through electric veins.

Clouds rise and fall short

to compare with feeling

and seeing

in explosive pops of color.

How can we not sing with

a passion unrivaled to

crisp cerulean skies;

what a gift it is to have a voice,

to be a being with heart

amongst a world filled with

wild and beautiful things.

How can it be that we

can wake to witness

life each day renew

in orange and red

across a flaming sky

and pour into a brand new

burning day?

Only a tsunami,

black and grey,

challenges a world so full-

turns to ash a reef

rich with light and

brightly flavored thoughts.

Equally unstoppable

these trenches of despair long

to travel deeper

into a psyche of turbulence

and takeover

a candy lacquered mind,

turn it to thunderous night

where harsh white flashes

itch to strike down

any hint of sweet

and peaceful dreams.

How can we not add

our own tiny, salted raindrops

to this great tearing wave

as it rips our shaky stilts

to shreds,

demands submission to

its unruly prowess.

How can any of us

not know of water’s

relentless, nimble inclination-

raw and solitary-

to paint in tears

our every joyous call?

For the People

You locked away our fate in ink

supplied by the blood of

your children and theirs;

signing their souls away

before they could make a choice,

their lives governed by rules decided

by people they will never know,

never meet,

only see in schoolbooks

and on screens that you

will never see.

You had the best intentions,

intending the best for the people

you had to protect

and this land you love-

most people love you for it.

But good will means nothing

in the face of those in power now,

who took what you built

from sweat and blood

and use it with greed to serve no one

but themselves,

who grapple for

supremacy and power,

and not for the people

who put them there.

daydream’s calling

come and enter into this

reverie: a moment

eternal and insignificant,

everlasting and always ending.

peer into the soul and find


creedence in a

river’s flow and swell, the

eerie knowing of

easy unease in the

petals of a dying flower;


clandestine clouds cover

rays of rising sun and

evermore a drop of

excited melancholy will

permeate this eternal memory.