Rusted Ribcage

Etched into the palm of time is a personal clock

ticking off each second

as it happens to pass

with individual volition.

Each finger, screwed back on

leaves the fist as creaky

as the release.

They don’t write much anymore 

but what can be certain

is the night with no moon

is favorable for those

who deny any sort of wrong doing 

in the face of atonement.

Seeking forgiveness 

must be everything 

opposite to selfish.

I do not want to feel better.

I deserve to be

chest deep 

in the manicured muck

of my own making.

I should have a tattoo

composed of January tears

and spring weather.

It will read,

“Love never knows best.”

The heart can pound 

against the walls of my

shale cage,

but it can never break free.

As such,

the hands must act.

As the heart beats blood

into the remorseful limbs,

creaking fingers must grasp

the iron handle of due servitude 

easing, as able,

the weight within 

other cages–

loosen rusted locks,

burn regretful seconds

tock, through to tick

cold as snow, soft as tin.


(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?

Time, the Asshole

What ever made you think

all of the stipulated sun fire

would lash in the shape

of another’s eyeball?


How could the world be any different than it already is from itself?

Even if a time machine was born tomorrow

I think it might opt out

stop itself from existing

before trying to fix any of the


or shaky columns

stood upon by

shoes with stomped heels and

sockless toes.


Stray mountain,

stay until sunrise.

I’m in need of a

blanketed eclipse.


It doesn’t really matter to me

that the blue wanes.

The crescent solstice of moody wakefulness

barks madly at every passing misconception.

Startled, the whisper wanders.

Trying to find light in the logic,

fearing, worse,

that it was blacked out long ago.



What is it when a dandelion sings better than your previous stirring? How can I even write when I fear the very eyes that would be able to tell me whether or not I’m mad? I cannot begin to fathom the ways in which a cloud turns and does not regret turning in the first place. What does it matter if it avoids the rain? A stray piece of lightning, or a thunder’s quiet aftershock will inevitably break apart the majestic puffy balance of the whole. Eleven hours later and there is no need for worry. It is another day, and that day comes with its worries. There should always be a Tuesday part two, where we get to go over the day with a thin pronged comb, try to even out the messes left on the table, on our brows. Even if you feel as if you did all you could, we have always been told to double check our work, just to be sure we didn’t leave any questions unanswered. “But still, I do not wish to look back.” Well some of us do, so why don’t you take the day to get some extra sleep? “I do not think there is anything for me in the land of my dreams.” You are sadly mistaken. Many desires that will forever go unfulfilled lie in wait for the sleeping ball of blue. And so what if the fine tuning of a day lasts forever? Who are you to decide for me that I should not repeat the same day in order to get it just right, just the way I want it to go? Why should I just go with the flow of you? Time, you’re an asshole. You always have been. No one wants to say it anymore, they just want to adapt, as is their nature, MY nature. I don’t want to. I want to go against your stupid endless flow and make my own god damn river, and you’re a huge dickbag for not letting me. I get that you’re bigger and more powerful, and no one can stop you. I don’t care. You’re already going to kill me, so I might as well take some of you out of my day to call you on your bullshit. I can’t believe you.


Skip ahead to the final moments when I realize it was all for nothing. You’re just waiting for the final, breathless punchline to tie a pretty pink bow around your perfect little joke. I get it. Haha.


You’re so predictable, it hurts. When will you finally get tired of seeing me hurt? When is it my turn? When do i get to punch a clock in its stupid face and hear you say “ow”?

I could drink. I did smoke. I don’t want to do either, really. There are a million things I would like to do. Because of you, I either can’t do them, or am to afraid to do them, for fear of losing my roof and my bread.

People don’t deserve to be evil. You just force it upon them and laugh till your sides split, opening up more room for the bitter, smoke-laden countdown to never.


If I had a pocketwatch, I would turn it back and just pretend. Even the idea of stealing back what you’ve taken from me is more satisfying than spending another one of your overpriced seconds.

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.

The Mind at Work (Poem)

Touch tender sense and sigh;

the last letters line the trail

left by your fingertip

on the edge of every thought

I left home without.

Training the mind and serving time

like an appetizer to each day

wondering why the stomach never fills

just renews

every moon

every noon.

Striped are the covers of others

while far-fetched angles laugh.

Enter sign, restart time,

justice is only as swift

as the blade that’s made of glass.

Modern Nonsense (Poem)

Antiquated serpentine

Twice forgotten trails of time

Drawing well and well from wine

Pressing forth the winded chime.

Crusting Earth as if defending

Always wishing never sending

Parting sea and sky intending

Solaced song to return mending.

Silence to the solemn noon

Writhing by the side of June

July will come and frequent soon

Crime disaster, bolstered moon

In the book cave we are lending

Never stopping never sending

Breaking long before the bending

Quiet glisten, shadow mending

Frightful forth is star to wake

“Hold your breath for breathing’s sake!”

Drink your wine and wish by nine

that sleep indeed a blessing makes.