He was already dead before he was born, came out of the womb like   void                     and now he’s the nightmare that lives down your street. Dwelling in desolation and isolation, he just wants to live in your house, live in your skin, take it all in. He’s never really seen but lurks from within. it’s kind of an addiction, if you know what i mean. Sitting on the sidelines, life never really comes for him. Everyday he makes exactly the same. He lives in emptiness outside the sleepy hallows, on the periphery, imperceptible. When the night comes, he swallows his breath and gives in again and again, rolling his eyes in the back of his head, devil’s cock in his hand, wanting only to consume, to be consumed.

Fog Over Lake Washington

The fog sits thick

over Lake Washington –

immovable like an activist.

Wakes come in from

behind the curtain –

in an endless supply –

to tickle the shore.


Watching change,

a trout’s splash

ripples the water

which in turn ripples thoughts

through my mind.


It occurs to me that as I try to describe

nature’s song, I ripple thoughts

through your mind.


If my actions are the only thing

that I truly have,

then perhaps the best thing I

could do is nurture growth.


Consumption (A Poem)

When you are a consumer, you’re also the consumed.

lines of identity are a blur

so now we have to assert

our individuality, put a filter

on reality

and take your medicine.

The Materialists say that it’s the only way to

survive the harsh realities of nature, and

we’re inclined to believe them,

because it’s in our nature.

We keep adding layers of filters

like layers of clothes, just to get by.

They are bleeding us dry.

From the Life and Times of Domesticles

It was a lush autumn night when Domesticles woke to the realization that he, and everyone else, was at the end of someone else’s bottom line. Even the fat cats in the high rise offices were pawns in someone else’s game, everyone was being used in this life of domesticity there is no avoiding it.

That he was long in service. In fact he was in service to the word service, as much as he was in service to the elites. Life was service. Living the domestic lifestyle that he was, his actions and thoughts were a constant service to lining the pockets of the retailers.

Matrices, much like a pyramid scheme followed his dollar up the food chain, wherein he could see not only the interconnection of things but also his own place in it, right at the bottom.

A bead of sweat formed. Needless to say Domesticles did not sleep very well.

An Hour or So in the Park (Haibun)

Yesterday we walked through the woods only with the intention to explore. We were confined only by the limitations of our mind and that of the park borders. We forgot to ask about what we would be doing in an hour. We left behind the fancy of thought lost in the hours that have yet to happen, because we were so swept away, so immersed in the immediate questions of this tree or that bird. It felt like hours had passed, though it had only been minutes, because just around the corner of every moment a new discovery lay in wait. Is this the same park we come to every weekend?

Redwood cedar boughs dip and make a perfect seat to sit and watch the march of ants up the sloping bark. Big leaf maple leaves dot the trodden path, and you always seem to find the perfect one to pick up and take for a walk. Quaking Aspen, with yellow and green leaves, shiver and flash in the light breeze, shuddering brilliance against the clear blue sky. We dream of forever in this moment.

Every patch of bent grass appears as if it’s some kind of secret entrance that beckons us further into the brush, under the prickled, hairy canopy of moss laden tree limbs. We sit for a while in the marsh and listen to the birds dance between treetops in hopes of seeing one flash right in front of our eyes, or sing it’s lovely melodies just above our heads. We dare to hope. Though we don’t need it, because we see its limitations all around and hear it in the marsh frog’s croak.

Not too bad for an hour or so in the park.

Lost in your smiles

Let’s walk another mile

Along the birch grove.

Of Nature and Inspiration

Have you ever had this happen before?

Inspiration strikes:

An author brings words to life, everything flows, there’s an intuitive nature to it; harmony. It’s poetry fused with knowledge and drama.

More beautiful than anything you’ve ever writ, but still makes you wanna try, because it’s not stuck up writing.

It fills you, though, with a longing, an empty knowing that you could never reach that benchmark, or worse you may just end up producing a subpar imitation.

Still you know you’ll try, and you know that instead of finding fulfillment in your words, it will only ever increase that longing to try.

Today you realize that instead of trying to put it all down on paper, in the immediacy of the moment, what you really need, what will say how you feel without saying anything at all, is to simply go for a walk outside.

Under the canopies, amongst the birds and the wind, the shaking of leaves, trickling creeks, and distant traffic swells. Leave it all behind. Because in the hugeness of outside is where inspiration, real, unique inspiration strikes. Outside is where everything is said, without saying anything at all.

By the way, the book? The author? The Overstory by Richard Powers.

Consuming (A Poem)

Making conscious decisions to break habit enrgeeze. I’m on my knees beggin please

football players are taught to chirp, like birds. The good ones always do.

I’m pretty sure I’m turning into Dionysus.

Turning into, or making myself into?

I always keep an afrodezziack ack ack, or two around.

When I’m around you can feel the sound.

I am the aphrodisiac, maybe it’s the garland of seasonal foliage.

I wanna get you in that goddess pose

Wrap your legs around and pull me close.

I love to give.

And give, and give.

You know, I can’t help but feel the pull

Of collectible materials,

Consumed by the fire.

If John Muir couldn’t save the collective American soul, than who am I to even try.

With tired eyes, burnt out on the world. We could move out tonight.

I am the resurrection of Pan, take my hand

I’ll lead you through the grove, to the stands of redwood cedar and beginnings of man.

Lay you on your back, give you a heart attack ack ack ack.

In this hollow light, we’ll tune out and give in.

Again, and again.

Old Man Tree Frog (A Poem)

Took a walk to visit with the frog that lives in the tree.

Gambel oak to be exact.

But he had turned in as we were walking up.

The branches thick with fuzz, leaves turning crispy and yellow and brown, green splotches and spindly spines.

The earth moves in a post drizzle dance

we wait under the canopy for the old frog to come back out

and croon in the night.

He sings:

I’m sorry sweetie, it’s time to say good-bye.

I’m going back to killing my time

faded, in my memories, telling myself ev-ery thing’s

gonna be alright.

randomly rambling

Im just trying to be genuinely

present, here with you.

And that’s when I realize, I gotta live the moment before I write about it.


I subscribe to leading a life directed by a knowledge that memory is not only some place in your brain, that memory is stored in the muscles, nerves, and cells of your body and that when you learn to trust that memory you can live poetry.