One Epiphany, Barkeep. To-Go.


Sunberry Touch

Embers fall from your eyes

as you blink away the shy flames

of our centered gaze.


Base intentions rise

quelled only by inner fountains

set to sprinkle on Saturday–

noon time, splintered sun tans,

tentative rays.


Campfire veins fail to cool

even as summers come to close.

Ample airings of argent hues

clenched, bark worn toes.


Speak with lips softened

by separate encounters

each time,

a step closer

to our shared heat.


Dancing tongues only know

so many steps.

We grew feet for a reason.


Remember the first time

the sun claimed your flesh as its own?

I fear the same of our first touch.


Burn me, afternoon lover

with the sunberry juice

of your blue sky brush.


Riddle me with your incomplete sentences.

Crease the last letter
you thought to leave beneath
the mattress
a secret admirer
only found between
changed sheets and
fingers tipped with
afternoon interlude,
faded release.

Face me like a heart.
Open and close at the rate
of bus fare handed
to the driver who
sees you run
and stops to
tie your shoes into
a fatherly knot.

Give me the soul of your last sleepless night.
Pour it slowly into my cup
such that I can smell each yawn and
caress every droplet of the words you

only sell to yourself.

I know.
It is worrisome
to let it drum
bit by bit at the bottom of the glass
moments stretched, bare,

uncut grass.

How are you to know
I’m not just another mower
hired to snip at your growth, or
step carelessly on
your most closely held

I am the breeze.
I want to feel each feather of you
bent, perfect, blessed or pressed thin, overgrown, under rested. Tied and left in backroad gardens, exposed and erased, rewritten in jargon.

The way you fly…
I sing it.

I could write to you
every summer melody and
pardon my reality
the simple rain and drought of green
It will never render me

but dive in–

Innocent Distance

Tripping over my own indecent socks
I admonish my toes in alpha numeric order
I don’t know which one I stubbed first but

it definitely did not happen

while I was reaching

for the swing set smile

in your eyes.

the blatant disturbance
between your shoulders
reeks of lost walk ways.
we drank Gatorade
as a method of supplying
our eyelids with brighter colors
being so young
who could know
electrolytes aren’t used
in defibrillators.

Bring me back
to your blue sheets.
Teach me red
and don’t starve,

My hands used to be
so content with
keyboard racing but
now I can’t seem to regret
holding you captive in my head
wrapping arms around
a frame of the mind’s design
enticing smiles and
feeling the lips turn
against my skin–

Your collarbone is a roadmap
upon which my fingers could
scout out every landmark
sending the coordinates
to my mouth.

Create with me
a single night.
Let us both collide
the stillness of your feet
will fall away at the
whispers underneath
your neck.

can sing to you
with nothing but my tongue
deep within
your stomach
notes strolling casually
up through the throat
greeting your hot breath
as you decide
to allow the refrain
a taste of its own

First of course
those legs of yours.
hiding behind nets and
cages of silk.
One hand remains free and
bought tickets
to your knee.
Those fingers have
been dying to hike
the snow covered summits
leading to the
single flower
where symphonies can be strung along
by tongue as well as tone.

The hips of you
begging to be
jailed by palms and tips as
locks and keys
suddenly there
isn’t air
it’s pressed from you
your garden blooms
with a new warmth
refreshing like sunlight
rigid as river stone,



The Earth of you
revealing the core
[as we both rain–
but what is rain
when stripped
of atmosphere?]


walk me to your window.
The breeze will cool
the sunset pools
lain bare
between the tresses
of your heavy lashes
and sunburst sighs.

Ember eyes,
burn me away
so I might live again
to douse you
with the songs
of “stay”.

(Pluto Poems 4) Corona

I don’t want to orbit the sun anymore.


Her warmth is poison to me

you see its easier to simply

float alone, frozen than

pick away at the nitrogen ice


in hopes that one day

you’ll find the central core of life

that hasn’t been there all along.


I am rigid.

Her mere closeness

breaks me.

If I were to crash land into

her Saturday and

stay a few nights with

arms to caress and

cheeks to kiss, then

perhaps learning to swim

in my own chest

wouldn’t be so maddening


but there is no Saturday on Pluto.

There are no ponds, no lakes.

Streams or creeks, whispering sweet

lullabies to the moons.


I am forged of broken, stiff

glacial indifference.


Please, you wretched hydrogen star…


My fingers are not even flowers

yet they wish to bloom

along the fields of your


(Poems of Pluto 3) I Played Mario with the Sun

I took a picture of the sun

while she wasn’t looking.

I’m sorry.


I knew asking would only

brighten the flames


the teeth.


I wanted something to call my own.

Anyone can want the sun;

No one else

gets to play Mario with her.


So I captured her,

in this single moment where

my couch was her home

my voice

her touchstone.


I wonder how far

Pluto’s voice


in the void between

my couch

and the center of

her chest?