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

Early Spring

 Daniel’s name rung out through the cold, stone corridors that had once been his home. These archways and spires were so familiar once. A few birds halfheartedly sung in the morning mountain mist. Doused in the gloomy light of the dawn, seeping through the garden that lay parallel to the abbey corridor, four men, cloaked and hooded in black, bore his corpse through the halls. The funeral procession behind him slowly marched, solemn and silent for the deceased, only the birds to sing his dirge.

 As he walked beside his brother, Ryan thought of what was to become of him. In the abbey, they were taught that a good man was assured Peace and Happiness in the Long Sleep, but nonetheless the young boy wondered. Would it be black and dark like the night? Or would it even be there at all? What if his brother just-… stopped being? Altogether.

 His mind tried as best as it could to wrap itself around the idea of an Afterlife, but an eight-year-old has very little power to grasp such thought provoking ideas with any efficiency. His grief-wracked brain ran faster than he could keep up with, and his heart would speed up and then he would think of poor Daniel and how he just wished his older sibling would just get up and proclaim it was all a joke and they would all laugh and they could be happy again.

 Daniel loves-

…playing jokes.

Then I Watched Mark Whalberg Play Basketball for Five Minutes Before Breaking for Lunch

Yesterday and the day before, I found myself as a hired extra on the set of an upcoming Mark Whalberg film. Our set for this scene was the Galen Center, basketball stadium of the USC Trojans. A week prior, a contractor called my band director, asking if there were any volunteers eighteen or older of the band’s percussion section who could be a part of this movie. Out of the few eighteen-year-olds who were listed, they picked me to help balance out the mostly male dynamic.

When I got onto the set, six fifteen in the morning, I was baffled by the sheer size of the Center. High ceilings and halls with fantastic acoustics. Hair and makeup artists were set up all down the upper hallway.

I was directed into costume and told where to go, and in about an hour, I was in full face-paint, and had my hair teased and styled up into a Mohawk.

What really interested me, however, was the way people looked at me.

Before I was all painted up, just walking in wearing jeans and a v-neck, the people I passed, crew members and extras, looked at me with a keen interest. It was a kind of brief stare that conveyed some kind of curiosity that prior to this kind of all-adult situation, I had not experienced before. I mattered to someone. I became a person in the sight of strangers, and it was entirely liberating. No self-consciousness that comes so often in a high-school setting.

After telling this to my mother, she smiled, a bit of a laugh behind her tone, and said “Welcome to the adult world, and to life beyond High-School.”

Peculiar events. Peculiar feelings. But all felt comfortable, and connected, in a way.

I’m Writing About Not Writing

Sometimes I have some semblance of an idea in my head, and I truly want to be able to flesh it out in a short piece of writing. Except more often than not that sweet milk of inspiration turns into cottage cheese in less than a minute. I get so frustrated. I feel that somehow I’ll be able to make the cottage cheese into milk again by poking at it, but it’s too late. The idea is spoilt.

And oh look, now the crumbly, liquid, gooey puddle is starting to mold. This is just gross now.

I give up and scrap the idea, and feel sorry for my lack of focus for a little while.

But I guess there’s no use crying over spilt milk.