I’ve seen the pen bled dry upon the page

left while waiting for soft and chubby child digits

still too slow to lift and become armed,

the thought run dry and astringent

not tight like the hands that grasp and count,

but crying to be wet and rest their appetite.

Here I have set down the journey

to gently lift up the soaking map,

that trembles in between push pins,

while I stare in awe, cautioned not to watch

as the needle was bled dry on the vein.

That room nestled and cradled in as many arms and veins

it could riddle with the infant dream –

eternity tapped on the pulse.


One solitary smoke-stack,

back drop to the white night sky,

swayed chimneyed between two fingers

tracing onyx Grecian clouds in shapes unread

that I’d come to think I would forever see

becoming was what was to become of me

which I ‘d continue to cast but break endlessly.


I’ve watched the timid and modest run dry and unclothed

on nothing but winter air into the barrens of well known night

in illicit after dark conservancies on borrowed natures,

where pulse could run free and unseen;

and faith run dry because the rope was short and the well was too deep:

it frays and stretches to reach just before it breaks,

or wretches out remaining hours before the self conscious sun wakes,

or while mining the vein the golden pick quakes,

and with final strength found to lift, emptiness takes

as I await hearing a splash from bottomless lakes.



Only now I…

Only now I wonder if I show my soul
just to feel that I have one,
to feel that it’s there and not lost or
having some how slipped out of me
like a crumpled up love note from my pocket.

I used to dream that all of my teeth were falling out.
I’d feel the first rolling around on my tongue, foreign
and estranged. Like I never knew it to begin with,
now out of place and with nothing to do
but be spit out into a strange hand quizzically.

And one by one they would like stalactites
cascade onto the then writhing
muscle feeling something new,
a fearful tongue,
and I with fearful tongue and speechless,
a mouthful of confusion, I, skipping stones
into the dark pool of my mouth, am lost.

Only now when I wake
do I still bare my teeth.


I know that I am forlorn and lost and there is no going back
when I have begun already falling in love with people I don’t even know
and my heart drifts out beyond even my reach and Sudddenly the Sea becomes
the closest coast to my metaphorical mass and I begin writing love notes
shaped like boats and send them out into the raging storm.
They are built to sink, made of heavy words and dreams.
They are holdfasts to my hearts past and an inexcusable future.
They are artificial reefs of exhausted songs
and played out tires burning endlessly under water.

When I lie down, collapsing into bed,

rolling over onto my back, and close

my eyes before bringing both hands

up to my face and impel them to run

fingers through my hair: weathered

and telling fingers, tired and restless

hair, in the interrupted closingness of

shuttered eye’s lids and winged brush

of perhaps unjaded lashes let loose, I

will stop the desedimentation of my self

and start to build something I too can enjoy.