the nerve

Actual daily threadbare psychic pain.
Rooted in my brain.
Clinging from the other side.
The other side of what, I cannot know.
Perhaps the what itself
Is the blight, the distractor.
Though also a token source
Of daily pleasure,
Or at least of sensation.
The raw sort hurts so lovely
So long as it's gentle.
The smallest size on the grater,
The surface scratch.
I rub my eyes bare.

lost poems

Inundation of moral quandary.
Quagmire of significant choices:
Put another plastic in the sea?
The best lack all conviction. 
Judgment of a generation as poetry.

Sacrifice is succor via suffering.
Satisfaction is available,
But only to the moneyed and the free.
Death is no better whined at than withstood. 
Moral instruction encased in poetry.

An ancient city buried in the sea,
A museum of entombed fragility.
Testament to a truth that none shall see.
The fascination of our predicament - 
The envelope is scratched with poetry.

Spectral creatures pick at their snacks,
Which collect in pinches and cracks.
Their gazes are glazed and ghostly.
The sour breath shall vanish in a day. 
Most shall see somewhere some poetry.

ape planet

the constant crass inaction
of lonely boring people
with things stuck in our beards, 
beastly men. 
greedy mistakes. 
bobbleheads, 
quivering lobes, 
(life is in there, though!) 
what does it matter? 

maybe we're all connected, they say. 
our dna is in the milky way. 

i want to believe it, sure i do. 
other times i'm even sure i do. 

other times
the rags hang from the rafters. 
dirty, dripping, barestript, 
soak-streaked rags. 

Alfred Adler

That we are capable of remarking 

Is remarkable.

That you can turn and talk 

With your elbow partner. 

Sixth grade math is sacred, 

So please ask questions. 

Seek wisdom in elders, 

Give quarter to travelers.
The meaning of life is here,
In the space between us. 

untitled

Bespoke annihilation.
With pace, the rivers run.
Mountains churning granite.
Into, unto, upon.

Everyone Likes

Make the music
Everyone likes,

Don’t leave it
Up to fate.

Play the sonata yourself.
The symphony
Can’t hold
The notes
These days.

Autumn Fall

A dramaturgical gambit.

A feast of skullduggery.

The masterpiece is burning.

The button controls the play.

Spendthrift creatures sneaking,

Alleys hide like prey.

Sag and droop, sad pockets,

Savor the pennies away.

A lot of good they’ll do us

Oxidizing in the grave.

Trade them for something shiny new.

The market is open today.

Something in the Wind

The great reveal:
The year's first smell of spring.

Let us let it beckon us
Outside to play.

We'll fall out laughing, 

Breathless, staggering, splayed.

Our grips will reflexively loosen,
Our eyes will leak, 

Time itself will grovel
At our feet. 

The Dungeness Deposit

Bears upturn suburban garbage cans,
Bottles clutter the sides of wilderness trails.
Lines and borders tend to bleed together.
Fences, laws, and tariffs tend to fail.

I pluck a rock from the mountains,
And cast it to earth across the bay.
Will it matter much to either place?

My intuition says the rock requires mourning.
Oh, ancient emblem of gradual entropy!
More likely it is me who grasps for meaning:
Projecting, imposing, imagining tragedy.

Riding Seaward on the Waves

In the humid atmosphere,
Braids fray quickly.
Pricks of sweat
Burst from tender skin.
Sands, composed
Of tiny eyes of coral,
Cling to clothing.
Sips of water soak from within.

Waves spit spray that floats
With eerie languor.
Smears of haze curdle
Into focus through a squint.
The sand is lava, coral, abalone,
Boulders to an atom.
Shells and flint.