The Lost Boy

Her absolute
inability to keep
her hands
to herself;
that, he reflected,
marked the moment:
the sudden death
of his affection.

Now his hands
are everyone’s—
and no one’s.

He absolutely
her indiscretions;
wounding in fashion,
matching with precision
the patterns
of his scars.

This is his un-doing:
his choosing to remain
the lost boy.

Pretty Little Tragedies

The way clouds
pile together
to mighty pillars
bracing the sky,
then vanish
with a shift in wind.

The connections made
in complex webs
intertwined over time,
torn away at every end
with a simple
swipe of hand.

How you,
my favorite may be,
in the second of a snap
image fixed to a lens
aperture and opportunity sealed,
became a never will be.


You are only
constant in your
Your waxing,
waning, and
inevitable fading.
But, you return;
open faced
and bright,
drowning stars
setting fire
to night.

You and I,
we hang in space
by some
invisible thing.
Our orbiting bodies
draw ever near,
your surface swells,
my seas surge.
I’m your perilune.
You’re my perigee.
And in this proximity
we bring a simple
sort of symmetry
to the vast
of nothing.

Yes, this is
Yes, this is
We are only
constant in our

Truth and Consequence.

His eyes
were the kind
you saw your
death in.
Lips of
laced in
to disguise
the devil’s

To hell with

The Adventurer

I am your adventurer,
eager to explore
the hot springs,
cool creeks, and
windswept fields
of your skin.
Dips and ridges
of your ribs
become my guide;
peaks and valleys
of your spine—
my wilderness.
At the pools
of your lips,
I am nourished
and refreshed.

I am your adventurer
shaped to mark
causes and
their affects.
With my head
on your heartbeat
and my fingers
along your neck,
I trace a path, and
see to my work.

The Lonely Harvest

We are
walking wounds,
seeping sores of
loss and
A swollen
sickly people
plowing into
one another
tearing at
the soil,
spreading seed,
for a slippery
a breath…
of relief.

We bury
in bodies.

an incessant
harvest of
that madness,
of the sad.

We are
walking wounds
crown to boot
in battle armor.
Fighting for life—
to the death.
A warring tribe
clashing bodies, yet
to touch
a soul.

Deep Divers

Diving deep
into hyperbole,
string words
into phrases,
with emphasis
and pause.

We call this

Diving deep
into beds;
flesh upon flesh,
muscles flex
and stretch
into motion.

We call this

We are out of—
and so far from—
These are
the shallows;
the tip
of ego,
the surface
of lies.
Scratch as we try,
our nails only go

This is not

Oh Brother.


Did Christ climb
upon his cross
to spare us
death’s claws
or to model
all the courage
needed for the fall?
Is immortality, truly,
the maker’s intent?
Or does this teaching
reveal man’s greater sin:
the absolute inability
to see a reality
in which around him
all does not revolve.

‘oh brothers’
let go of your tails
come out from your place
of delirium and denial
you call faith;
for you will need the courage
of the lamb—and the lion—
to look at death
in the face.
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He’s a cold front darling,
storming in from the east
and he’ll find you,
shaking every leaf.
A reckless, wild wind
lifting feather-lite hems,
flinging petals,
uprooting stems,
swaying hearts, and
rattling bones.

A man in motion
emerges in a fury
and just as swiftly
blows. on. through.

from the wind shaped cypress
I take my cue.
A persistent little tree
who’s lovely lithe limbs
stretch out to meet the breeze.
A base of strength
that turns
and gracefully twists
in all directions
the wind. may. shift.

There’s a cold front coming
blowing in from the east;
when he comes for you darling,
show him every leaf.

Sea and Stone

I am the stone—
rock steady.

              You are the current—
              perpetually in motion.

I am the shore,
folding and flexing
beneath your weight.

              You are the swells,
              rip tides and
              rogue waves.

I am the earth
you shape and
carve away.

              You are the tide
              leaving with the promise
              to return.

I am the land
you crash upon.

              You are the breeze
              that takes me away.