this cyclical sickness
forsakes any semblance

of hope

for subsistence

and futures complicit

in fluctuance flailing
failure never failing

and yet

must refuse

to resign


to have arrived
is to die

I have since
surrounded myself
with cut-out cardboard
reconfigured with no particular preference

staples and tape

to ward off the hatred

a color completely devoid
of vindictiveness

the windowless model is quite suitable

for I have not the time
to look up
and ahead

I am far too caught-up
in this whole “being dead” thing

oh, what a dreadful façade

[image credit: Jan Toorop]


the paradox of a promise
one cannot hold

known so well

ask not why

anxiously fleeing
leaden clouds
of dusted wake

and coerced ruination

the black horizon

heaven, pray forgive me


but the bleakest silence
can allay these blighted days

tempting the mirrored gate

it reveals

that it is time

[image credit: Pablo Picasso]

Extant Toll

reeling from the shrill assail
falls entropy surreal
shrieking past in amaranthine streaks

present will
spawn futures fading

fanning flames
of phantom fears

the silphium of self-affliction

arms outstretched

wretched hands of spider-like accosting
insistent to collect the extant toll

mortals of a moribundity
so profoundly mundane

stranded on ledges
of bridges burned
at oblivion’s edge

a futile spiral of lament
into event horizon

[image credit: Freydoon Rassouli]


some days
we long to be killed
more than others

to save us
from spilling
our secretive druthers

in rum-soaked confessions
to loathsome ex-lovers

or nameless encounters
with strangers uncovered

shamelessly asking for help
from our mothers

whose salt stings the wounds
from the womb to the gutter

whose ruinous choices
left pagans to shudder

impetuous voicings
so flagrantly uttered

lugubrious lamentations
seethe and smother

you see
i have neither the will
nor the the wanting

to languish in suffering
ever so daunting

i rather prefer
to bestir to the coffin

and slough this infernal coil
right the fuck off then!

[image credit: Edward Honaker]

Stoned Miles

ashes eschewed

usher fall underfoot


the remnants

of endless days



and despondent




i no longer see

the trees taper



once flourishing

thought, sound, and feeling



in shrill peals


a tale stowed surreally



by flickering




strangely retold

in a cold, bleak immersion


hours burned frigid

of infernal mind


rue forms a sordid soot

of the soul’s toiling


inward it folds

fueling lucifer’s fire


solitude broods

failures born of inaction


on mattresses




and forgotten



with mildewed crumbs


bones for a pillow


the contrast stings anguish


shone stark

with such loss


beyond even nightfall

its poignancy stretches


these truths

weep beside me

framed by the faint gloaming


the autumn dawn



as ardent

claims feigning

to never have cared


but the silence

she already knows

[image credit: H.J. Ford]