A scuffling of glass on the pavement, lying and glinting where it doesn’t belong


Clicking, clicking and ever, muffled voices over a garbled phone-line, desperate breathing coupled with cracking voices and a threatening sob,

exhaust-reek and tumultuous waiting fill heads and nostrils alike with a curling sensation of wretched anticipation

Blood and asphalt smell mix with the smoke, warm and fascinating and terrible, and heads turn and eyes gaze on while the ever disagreeing stomachs scream and shriek for the head to turn back the other way

Avert, avoid, it doesn’t exist then

But the reality lies in those prevalent scents, and the pain of it lingers languid in them.


Wide eyed and not living, bright eyes with bent necks, split skin, we become them. we are their silent, open mouthed screams, turned to hushed gasping and murmured prayers, little, little whispers of panic and disbelief.


After a little, after the haze of siren-song and metallic sawing, they are freed, limp and lifeless and alluring, and the audience looks on.


Again, the scuffling, and switching of weights from metal wrecks to the possibility of a saved life for those who have not already met with their shaded Pomp.


And here within minutes, within a quarter of an hour, the street is clear. the dead are removed, the convicted away and apprehended.

The asphalt remains unclean as it stays burned behind the eyes of all who knew and saw the blood run across a clear pane of glass, and tasted that bile in their throats.  



An incomplete summer repeats itself day after day

day after day it reminds me

reminds me of who I have become


Not a What


Skipping and stretching by and by

this illusion of an endless escape

teases and fractures

and the music dies within you


You smile and you laugh

and you will know

just how far you can go without breaking

breaking apart

apart in this beautiful hallucination of freedom



The Taste of Language

I am the words that pour from your lips.

I am “Vivacity,” “Capricious,” “Demure.”

I sing through your teeth, tasting of vowels; long “U’s” and sweet “I’s” that are reminiscent of molasses, or warm honey.

I taste of love and of childhood and of every bitter memory that lingers upon your tongue.

I remind you of your own humanity whenever you take the time to notice me.

I remain appealing to the eye through countless ages; unlike you, fleeting lover, I am eternally beautiful.

I form the bonds that tie you to your world, and I give you that sense of knowledge and sentience.

I am the beauty that sets you apart from the crawling worms and howling beasts of the earth, and from the singing, yet dumb, creatures of the air.

I, unlike you, will always know what to say and how; never a word on the tip of your tongue, only to be forgotten, dried up, and turned to gritty ash in your mouth


I am the music for the non-musical, the poetry for the unimaginitive; every facet of me has its own flavor, its own intent.

I am unending, and without beginning.

And I am yours to use, and to make your own.



The water is speckled and moving

as if it giggles to itself

tickled by dainty pinpricks

that pock its surface, rippling

laughing quietly


tittering about some secret

it shares only with itself

it covers the sun

and makes the green among the grays

more vibrant, brighter than the sun

could ever manage

I would think

this makes him jealous

as he tries to banish the clouds away

just to prove

he can make things brighter

with his hot



But I prefer this musk

this haze over the earth

this scent of clean air

and wet soil

of sweet water against grass

as the whole earth bathes

It is washed clean

and I walk among it

also purified

by the happiness it brings me

Fish and Band-aids

Despite my having tried to keep it clean, the white interior of the sink is spattered with blood.

The slab of salmon that’s intended for supper smells of salt and water-reek, and the heat of the sun pouring through the kitchen window does nothing to help.

However, though the scent is pervasive and slightly unpleasant, I enjoy the feel of the flesh itself.

It’s a tactile pleasure that one only finds in cold, unprepared meats.

The give and stop of unresistant muscle between my fingers is an interesting sensation.

So I slip off the skin and scatter the scales and slice and slice and slice and stumble with the knife.

The sudden sting in my knuckle is worsened by the fish-juice, and it mingles unfortunately with the blood in the sink.

And I look at the slab and wonder quietly, ‘what kind of sting did you feel?’

I wander away, fingers now redder, and tend to the cut and give it a band-aid; one with little cartoon characters on it from the bathroom upstairs.

Returning to the cutting board, I pause and stare.

My eyes follow the grain of the meat in its beautiful, waving patterns.

Much like myself, with similar, yarn-doll fibers and woven lines of sinew.

The oven beeps to tell me it is heated.

Carefully, I continue to cut.