in a mirrored reality
an old ghost
looks back at me through the touchscreen.
wrinkled and tobacco stained
slowly being erased,
from a mass memory.
I hear the grumblings
of an old man slowly

to the surface
of thoughts,
releasing dopamine
to cope like a dope.
Perhaps the tides
of time
sweep us away
faster than ever before
to the sandbanks
to an ever changing shore.


*I’m not sure why but anytime I upload a poem from google docs the formatting always seems to get lost in the publishing portion and so I thought I would include a link to the poem in a pdf format, if that sort of thing interests you.

It’s not often that I feel ready to take on the process of aging, rarely do I get to adjust the lens of reality and stand defiantly. Usually only when looking at my relationship with technology can this happen. Sometimes the fantasy of aging slowly, without any major diagnosis or emergencies clears and the raw knowledge that something is inevitable, someday I’ll have to tell the story that starts something like, one day I woke up and… and life is changed forever, this, though is what provides the impetus to move forward, with great effort to deepen my relationships with loved ones.

Tomatoes (A Poem)

If an heirloom tomato were

a body part,

might it be a kidney.

Quartered and sliced

aspirating a fine mist

seeds and juice spill

and soak into the cutting board.

A cherry tomato would be an eyeball,

of course.

The only difference between

the old me, listening to Led Zeppelin III

and me listening now,

is that I now have the wisdom to not

try to hit the high notes.


An over-ripened Roma

might be a thyroid gland,

or boiled and peeled it

becomes a swollen lymph node.

Slices become columns,

now juice and seeds are puddling,

columns into squares.

Of course the Beefsteak would be

the typical enlarged American heart.

Maybe when I die I could be composted

by the state, then They could sell me to

gardeners across the region.

My final act of charity.

A Brief Transcription of a Phone Call Where for the First Time a Middle Aged White Man Complains to his Wife of Being Marginalized

“No, you’re not,”

“But I mean it’s like nobody wants to hear my voice, my perspective. I’m a dad to a daughter, a husband, raised by a single mom, we’re all in this together and I matter too dammit.”



“Honey, you’ve had the whole of history to be ‘heard’ exclusively. You’re voice doesn’t need to be heard right now, move on.”


Either this dog is getting old or he’s just gotten used to the sunshine and warm nights. Taking a leisurely approach to sniffing for bugs and new growth. Sniffing  for evidence of change. He’s forgotten what it was like to have to hoof it back home in the rain. He’s forgotten how rain patter on leaves can fool you into looking over your shoulder, looking into the shadows of bushes and trees. No moon, only clouds and… no stopping for glances to the heavens. Not tonight.  He’s had it too easy, he’s become soft. Change, though, is in the air. The cool breeze tickles the leaves and soon we’ll fall.


What am I in such a rush for?

caught between the undeniable

inertia that grips me and the

desire to plow forward.

Waiting for Scraps

Moka pot is empty, the kids are finally into their movie; Lady and the Tramp 2: scamps adventure. Fridge is empty. They’re eating the rest of the mac ‘n cheese. Odin is sitting in anticipation; waiting for scraps.
Kitchen is a warzone.
When you getting home?

Too Many Mistakes (A Poem)

Well, i was laying on my side, melting into the mattress,

liquid layers of vibrations, carrying me away.

i was listening to my aura, as subatomic

particles in mid flight; like a helicopter above and

around my head. i felt the energy created through a lifetime

my heart beats like a time bomb, everything whirring

into a directionless direction.

I could feel the anger and resentment

built up in adolescence, aimed at the world

-which didn’t care either way.

I could feel the weight of the damage done over the years

trying to punish this body

that caused so much pain

-and it turns out this body doesn’t care either.

corroded stomach lining,

eaten away by battery acid.

weakened bladder, what does it matter?

if i’d had the resolve

and the right concentration

i could’ve continued my transcendence

back into the subatomic Original vibrations

but i was distracted,


by the fear of having made

too many irreversible mistakes.

Being (A Poetry Project)

The goal is to make get this published with the Origami Poems Project. If you enjoy this and would like to see it made, please let me know, I could really use the encouragement!


In: seeds producing manifest activity

Be willing
Own your folly
Know that you are change
Abide within intention
Don’t worry so much
They’re just as confused
Be yourself:
Slow down

Out: manifest activity perfumes seeds

Be patient,
Learn to listen deeply
Abide in silence

In: seeds producing manifest activity

Watch yourself like a book
Eat healthy
Yourself and others
Let go

Out: manifest activity perfumes seeds

Be helpful
Know that everyone is the center of the universe.


Where does this energy come from?
to generate so many sensations;
phenomena, in the usual Buddhist speak.
Maybe it’s not about finding where it
comes from, but accepting that it’s there…
Just be nice,
Be organic,
Don’t color interactions with desired outcomes.
Know when to shut up
And know when to speak boldly.
Know that underneath the tension
There is always love;
Beneath noise
there is always silence.
Know your limitations
and your strengths.
Recognize that we feed off energy;
you are energy.
You are the moment.
Own up to the truth of the moment.
It’s hard to do.
Choose to take pride in doing things for other people,
you can start with your family.

you don’t always have to be
the authority in the situation.
Know how you’re being used by commercialism.

Be awareness.
Learn how to shed light on
your self-centeredness.
Don’t take yourself so seriously.
Understand how
all forms of mediums bring out selfishness.
Know that
when you know one thing deeply,
you can know all things.
Be the effort it takes for real change.
Be open to all interpretations.

Let the thousand-petaled lotus open;
Accept yourself.

-Love, dad.



The goal is to make get this published with the Origami Poems Project. If you enjoy this and would like to see it made, please let me know, I could really use the encouragement!

P.s. I apologize for the repetition in posts, I’m a bit excited about the idea and wrote the two poems independently, however also wanted them to be experienced as one. Thanks!