We could feel

the crumbling edges of time

begging for full demise

gripping steadfast

unable to reply.


My bones speak to me

simply because I listen.


They sell small tales

of growing up, up, up

from valleys vast

breaching cliff

smelling rose.


Sails, cast aloft

sails, weighing heavy

sails, catching song

fueling foray


the ocean’s middle name.

Summit Rose(a Rewrite)

Bring me back
to your blue sheets.
Teach me red.

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

Create a single night
with me.
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.
One hand remains free and
bought tickets
to your knee.
Those fingers have been dying to hike
the snow covered summits
leading below
the single rose
where symphonies are strung along
by tongue as well as tone.

Your hips are
begging to be
jailed by palms and tips
as crescent locks and keys.
Suddenly there
isn’t air
it’s pressed from you
the petalcrest blooms
with a new warmth
refreshing like sunlight
rigid as river stone.


walk me to your window.
The breeze will cool
the sunset pools
fit to simmer
beneath the tresses
of heavy lashes
as starlit sighs grow dimmer.

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

Starting Stories: The Cyborg Who Looked

The streets were a mixture of fog and firmware. Anywhere he looked, he could just as easily have brought the sight to mind and stored the wasted energy for more pressing activities. With so much to do at the factory, any bit of inessential endeavor reminded him of his shortcomings. His attention wandered, where other’s simply did not exist. They did not see a tree, or a street at all. They saw purpose before them, and so they walked. They were strong, and he was weak. He would never hit ^2500, let alone ^1500. Mediocrity clung to him like the day’s birth dew to his cold-steel shoulder.

Morning rose further, and with it, the sun. Its light would power him for the day–he could tell by its brightness. He already knew what it looked like, and knew there was nothing to gain for looking again. If he could just keep his head down, perhaps today…

But, he so enjoyed to look.

Errant Fable

A striking resemblance to time turned dark

Entrails of embraces left beyond the reach of

feinted countenance, and

misguided     fits


Stranded across the palm of a tide

beaches burrowing beneath their wise grains

empty stories told

by the last     hourglass


Entropy, and symphony.

Such is the tumble of scotch

down the throat of the aching, erring world.

It strikes the stomach with its

unadorned mane

gold to the touch, but

warm to the vein.


Float   glide   glisten



You’ve gone errant, fable.

The final known is irrevocably sewn.