Palm Poem

red will love whoever is around,

the steal toe boots of anxiety

carry jealousy jamming toast at 5am,

fear lives with John Brown in Oregon park,

blue borrowed a few more to compose clarity in minor

chords, peach pink sky sings the sunset away, sizzling

to mourn the frying night,                                                  (                       )

truth tastes sour in song,

i am sure you know what i mean


let knew love

be born

for mine that

has died

A Lesson About Gossip

I’m clutching my pillow

Climbing the latter to your roof

Stabbing my pillow and staring.

What I naturally see…


carried away    into the wind.

Now I know

if you were told

to gather every feather,

that bled in mist from my pillow, that

you would claim naturally

the cause to be lost.

And this doubt,

is the image of gossip

living only

as it must

the cool school

i will let my mind pretend for you,

pretending will take whatever

Sever lever

I better have

Met her


you labeled me with bait for 

it to be easy. i will dress like

a girl before going to war

Get you for

What no more        now poor

Are you         sore morning

Hangover     is gonna suck for

You.       Bore me.

Now let me for once sleep

The side walk has vacancy in hell

Look door ass hit out way please

The only ears willing to ease is

The disease to soon cease you

After that weep all you like

Take a hike   chippy dip shit yeah like

Split! Had it!!!

she never talked to me again.

Sophisticated Vegetable Bandits

my apologies fatigued are weakened

muscles, pretending embrace with the

cattle raids.

the trilogy forgetting the lens of

how i say, how i think inward

and fragile content.

the respect of tomorrows goals

go failed under burning eyelids, no one will

know what i say, the words

of treasury forgive the demand

yet again.

so let us not forget with the reeling

reality spaced together. the crave

is soft, images still devour

the lost connectivity, my forgotten

sentences in time come undone.

today he wishes me well, to wring

dry towels of such salty sweat.

the symbolic season has called

to hang the jury, the forgotten

boy who has faith will burn.

these pages are a spirit cancer, the

weather forecasts via the voice of t.v. dread,

the rain so lonely and pathetic.

this man wishes well the thief,

the maker of wrongly brave doing and

bitter decision, both completely

forgotten in time.

the paint of this mess writes

the script for the invisible face,

the varied chances of tried aspect.

the only wish to forget again

i must.

may i forever roll a bunk fag

for a god that inhibits.

i have baked all of my friends

inside sweet life’s chocolate lie.


I have the gun to load

for the transparent mark among sore limbs,

I have the shake of earthquake thought.

Meaning, lost for the lovely western young sake of abstraction

catches cancer with a lumpy fright.

At 4am she claims we’re not drunk anymore,

frustrated again she’s suddenly lonesome,

walking home.

The drip drops of rain rinse glitter from her face,

The ash of her cigarette falling between her fingers,

Stilling peace with sweetheart words forgotten.

My decision,

Put my heart on the summit.

The fake laugh I hear from passengers inside

this shaken shuttle of truth!

More psychotic than I expected, so much

More truth that I must admit

Stilling peace with a violent covered riot face,

How much I haunt the answer now.

The mistakes laying dead around my battlefield porch

Keep a graceful beam of choice reflection.

I keep on decoding numbness,

Chaotic messages to place under my servants’ skin.

Pictures in the mind of valleys run bright

Throughout the inner sun, the visual soundtrack

For the majority calmly hearing our experimental formations.

From the beautiful face,

Real validation for the weekend goes suited,

To stop a lonesome label,

Of positivity refused.

I do not know where or when to stop,

Or if I should start to speak about this

And/or that.

I wonder if I should start to speak at all.

You cannot

blame me.

I know half of your daily anger

is from the answer

to that very question.

little poem

I miss nothing.

Too much of  that, I



I miss nothing like a boring picture of nowhere.

Too much of this. In that, I cannot afford.

Aquifer Photography of Portland

I shouldn’t act more prone in my prose to genuinely see the street from my cracking window, my breath upon the glass like a ghost of what I long to really say, my pathetic rant of sacrifice listens to me on Halsey, the bus sounds run through my head over the massive egos and rage of the road     free writing clause under this massive pen     my appointment willing to lend a shoulder for me to weep upon, though I haven’t let loose my bullet shaped tears    my fire escape is a valve in your heart, in your pants between the world I can love all night, with public demand wreaking havoc for another night, simply cautious for the end of the world    my crush is lost in the herds of masculinity   my local coffee shop rests on the corner of my social status, a square to study the faces of a glance misunderstood    the shifty furtive thought of a cat lover    not my murmuring nemesis scaling mount tabor round 4am on my birthday     the torture of  inequality in fashion, the wait for a bus in gray showers    discussing art to make you crazy   a conversion of theories making whoopee in the dance hall

music from decades ago

the barista is adored

my mind gone soft from the crippling medication, not like your stimulating energy in the night, the current state of forgotten sensitivity    the everyday low price of my affection    my attraction to feedback left screaming by a drunk punk   the resistance of a real experience to be discussed    the dose of my blanketing solution fears the touch of what I hide, the truth of a good point/ the last joint you burn away in

okay if you say so

“to actually survive differently, alcoholism must abuse the surprise, intentionally fun, closing back time, and again everyday stretching along the streets of everyone’s difference. Learning is an experience of a realm outside yourself, sleeping with a group of men in one soggy box. The rain of portland will gladly shelter the rich, but no families will support the cellphone nerve, brother and sister shall treasure spiritual riots outside the minds of morning beds of lovers, human connection starts to speak in the hope of the harlem homeless, such strength and wonder simplify purpose of strength, weakness to calm under the sun slightly sinking into the sand, humble hearts tattoo the existence, when an open spouse sleeps with guilt my heroes will never say a thing, lost under bridges, coaching the devil through a class on natural birth. a group of children me’s sit outside laughing as they watch through windows, the toll on them they swallow with pride”       -voice


uprising predictions- our dreams create this need in, the human condition of this warmth filling our pumps, a spirit rejoicing on her knees before the scavengers of our cloudy tomorrow, I will face a smile through the energies of our thought, i have made up in my mind sour lime flavored question air, my culture requiring me to answer paper tongue swaps swaying the sayings, my wired reversal rehearsal seduces the ears that see today’s tonality, abducting shattered mirrors that spill the lines that our youth marches through, the streets of our prayers, neighborhoods the mind envisions, in recalling out loud my therapy session stages/ between the layers of explanatory grief, my parting proficient always through the years, a lonely countryside setting, battling the blue vast stillborn sky. holding the sun to show off my marked burning arms, moving every creature from the sidelines of life