blooming out of fire

shattered, unique, resilient
we are intersecting glass splinters
renewing the light born
from shadows a million years old

and if you look close enough
you’ll know the ancient spaces
where we fit right into ourselves

where darkness flips itself over
revolving in kaleidoscopic songs
and the mute buzz of drowned endings

we are teaching each other
how to sing with no ears
the theoretical masks
of delirium and the way
it all stings of life, like
a kiss of fleeting frostbite

look at us with a microscope
you’ll see how it coats our skin
clusters and drenches our eyes

a past home in the gutters that
resonates like an undercurrent
we know the musk of stale air
all too well

and yet there lies poetry
in our freshness

the kind of beauty only true
after hearts are eaten and melodies
are released to die

we are here to prevail

an unanticipated gospel

of malady



Your eyes are chandeliers, overly magnificent
intricate crystal mountains
sifting through light effortlessly
amplifying purpose into gentle, technicolor beats

and I’m just one giant faker
clinging to every drifting log of salvation I find

a fringed paradigm I fell off the wagon too soon
and doled out all eleven and a half of my soul’s pieces
to the first hungry half-humans in sight

I want to swim out of my skin and float–
annihilate murky channels in the sea,
impale your dreams and imbue myself
build a platform high enough to live
in the sun’s vision, climb to a temple,
become your foolish idol

but I think it’s best to rot away in pencil ash,
lie and choke on the piles of carbon
my throat refuses to relinquish,
which murmur reverberating
maps of a hallowed path

you my dear, are too much hope for one vessel

thought crawls

Sometimes I fear

we’re all just inauthentic

versions of ourselves

cloned from strangers,

steeped in repetition,

tethered along by the wormy hope:

we will leave what we take,

tip the balance past zero,

and one day bury

our desperation

in reparations 

the word peddler

“Would you like to buy some snake oil?”

I inquire, grasping at a world
held three inches from my face
on a string, like a toddler
choking, always choking
on some giant, inky juggernaut
meant to be human

I never read my words correctly
or spew them out the same way
instead they superimpose as gradient,
crawl from my feet to throat
like spidery, gauzy nothings.

and I want to scoop them up
wear them like talismans,
scatter them across my skin
and feel their darts of truth
in unknown places

wishing for the willowy legs’ assembly
into sloppy calligraphy
one bold enough to frame caverns
and record the tales of being–

like the homeless man in army clothes
who nestles serenely under trees
and never bothers to beg for money

or the young boy who uproots ants
from sandy hills and burns them
with a magnifying glass, the only way he knows:
slowly, unnecessarily, and relentlessly.

me? I’ll stay broken until I die.
but I refuse to discard those dreams
where I shelf my vanity
and replace stories with purpose

where I swap my eyes with mirrors
and leak out the dirty vapor
until it all vanishes
to a lucid mirage

finally professing
“yes, that is what I meant after all”

Cave Musings

O, that cruel darwinian universe
its allure eternal and indiscriminate
bound only by the legacy of circles.

We lie beyond this arduous canopy,
sown with daunting switchbacks,
luminous with our blindness,
hiding within the voids of our smiles.

Into these voluminous green match sticks
I carve my warmth.

I rise to the wizened sky–
to immovable, muted moments,
the inevitability of a sunset,
a sky littered with monumental ashes.

I am but one solitary particle,
stumbling wistfully path to path
a pulsing nebulous
which yearns one day
to bloom as a lily
under the sun.

What is a poet?


What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music…. And people flock around the poet and say: ‘Sing again soon’ – that is, ‘May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.


-Soren Kierkegaard