Monday, July 3rd, 2017 – 7:28 pm

There is no feeling like it in the world. Most are afraid to jump, even though it is the safest way to change your future.

I’ve only jumped once and am no master, but it saved my life. Despite every injury, illness and dark silence in five desert decades, it has been proven again and again that I was never alone and never will be.

What is the furthest you’ve ever fallen? From heaven to hell or just the mirage between? Who’s to blame if each stage were your own making? How many feet have you already walked and ran, loved and swam and dropped into coffin and chasm?

It is safest to never sing. It is bravest to preach off key. Make a damned fool of yourself. Who can do that better than you? Learn to love and laugh when you’re alone. You should be the funniest, prettiest person you know.

Stand on the side, if your heart is weak. The wounds and tears are few as the laughs. So are the ecstatic leaps of lovers that help hope live and last.


Won’t you jump with me?

I set fear aside for a moment, an hour, a day, an eternity, to reach to the unknown, highest mountain, deepest ocean.

July 1st, 2017, I only fell thirteen thousand feet.

July 1st, 1988, I asked a girl to kiss me.

She said yes.

I am still flying.

Who Broke Me

Friday, June 30th, 2017 – 4:48 pm

“Who Broke Me”

If you’ve sat in my writers den, you’ve smelled one two-three-oh p.m. as easily as in a.m. again and again, any pair o’ empathetic systems can. Welcome on in, freely, if you would and will, if you’re experienced, you’ve already heard my story in fits and sparks, so much better than sun and sin impart. I’m tragicomedied wrong order from stop to stem to stammer lives stamen to start. I must’ve ordered it thus colored when the blood of us still acted like brothers.

I saw hell and heaven and tripped their liars in their own lairs, incognito in the lovely inbetweens. Why weren’t you there? I made a pact and a vow to save a killer, warm without whine and crushed by my own plush pushed pillars. I’ve met principalities you pretend to command. They’re not amused, mortal man.

I dreamed dreams from the beginning, wandering in tesseracts stretched farther than your doctrine taxed. I tasted magics you miss and mock while you’re faking miracles with dirty silver, wood and cloth.

I don’t always expose myself, but you’ve funded fare, fair and far. Part of my condition is an engine on my arm. Act my age, children, and save yourself some harm. Pair o’ Bulls both sighs of me, truth hid inside, for all you A’s and B’s to See I deal with eternal effing geometric sight.

That starts all my fucking fights. From family and friends and foes, some over to win, I slept and sliced my roots and vines to ribbons. I’ll make an isle maze from oils and lace for us to ease the fiction. “I” am the first word I was beaten for, too syllabic, hard and Different.

Who broke me but me. Who I am will say. It was someone wise and giving, only an honoree another day. I gathered my hidden pieces from your golds and gods and games, to rearrange the seasons, different man once again.

“Breath of Fenrir”

Wednesday, June 28th, 2017 – 4:25 pm

“Breath of Fenrir”

The first hunger was never collared or caged. The dogs are embers struck from her Coal, yet sad shadows of Mother. Mortal ears cannot hear red pads land on ash or sand, the rivers of sleep She laps and slithers in. A bargain was struck with us by our First Man and she promised to leave him a remnant to care for her sparks. That pact spared our people from the final fire and famine, but never slows her lunar tax and terror.

She rode and crept my foul dream with bared fangs and mercy. Once inside my tent, she weighed every heart before circling. Creeping new ice in my blue and red rivers yesterday turned bitter. It’s time. Now I’m to be crowned in crime and shroud, sewn only for the unclean or holy. Her hackles pointed at me only, so I became the broken lamp, the trial and tears of shame from the sin in our camp.

Some think she is a spider or snake, but I have seen her eyes. She refuses to touch blood until it runs black. My branches turned to twigs that they might fall with the other brittle leaves she collected before guest to our tribe. We hear her panting now, louder each night. No one may touch my tent until she has carried dry limbs home in Mother’s teeth. I whisper tender and ending verse to her child Last Moon, thankful for each patient, burning blue. Tonight I ride Fenrir back to the Tree of Ash.

Unwritten Lament

Thursday, June 15th, 2017 – 12:08 am

“Unwritten Lament”

I regret having
never written anything
I was given a final chance
to speak fire to stone
Hands and feet no more
Or eyes or ears
Yet we endure such screams
and tears and tearings here

What is the point of my story
being carved into lore
if the ones I loved
have all gone before
The more I touched their hands
the more their grip vanished
I loved too deeply and the end
came a final numb greater than
the first contractions and
smothers of suns

I don’t know how I am
supposed to act and feel
stuck here on the cold side
The clarity here is far too acute
You’ll swear minds are
playing tricks on you
You see each chance you had
to touch and love and forgive
and run and taste and breathe
and climb and paint and love
and love and lose and lose
and love anyway, deep and
deeper until your heart breaks

But we kept throwing that treasure
away for crumbs poisoned by
our own apathy and pain
I never took the chances
I spent every sunset and
some wise in a box of my
own build until my windows
curled up and died
That is when I learned
love is real but it was far
too late to pull the blind

The shift is never in
faces or songs
You have never even
heard a real song
most your life long
We only hear pitch and tone of
each other’s souls
We always have
The the char of coals shallow or
blazes cast either way
You see tragic black holes and
glaring unborn stars set in chains
of shame and warning
They call it inspiring
but it all happens too fast

What is important to include
in our unwritten laments
The ones nobody gets to
prepare and present
I’ll burn bright in your meantime
your spinning constellation prize
I heard women gather ’round
talking about a good man and
wondered where we might
find one of them

I died only a fortnight ago
You should have been there
I was warned to cry out
to the rocks that they might
avoid my crushing fate
And the angels said once
in a thousand years
a story breaks free
It bleeds through weights
greater than even loss or love
The devils were woken the same
millennia as their brothers
and gave me the same
warning in blood

They said my story might
rip through the dust and the
gems, cloud and fog of fear
that sleeps within
Both the lightbearers and
forgotten kin warned me this
might happen again
They said my words might
come to life and burn through
my wake three days blind

My story was meant to smoke
and rest with all the others
unspoken, unsung, unnamed
They said my luck would change
I still am waiting single file
for my name flew higher
and souls remixed 
If the guardians of the
stories are true
my useless gray will find
epic wing and ecstasy
as I became new
fire and old phoenix

Kinder Tinder

Tuesday, June 13th, 2017 – 12:18 pm

“24 hours?”

“No. You keep asking that.”

Her expression stone, her eyes move alone. She is really six foot tall. She only pretended to be so small.

“You have 30 minutes left,” she warns him.

If her lips moved up into a smile, you couldn’t have made or measured it.

“Will it hurt?” he asks.

“Oh for g… yes, you damned fool. Why would it be painless after everything we covered. Are you ready to relent? Recant? Or you can’t? Repent?”

“I said I was sorry!” he yelled.

Sam crawled back to silent sobbing, as if that could save a man. Soiled and sand running out of legs he would never use again. The stains on his couch told more of a story than he got a final warning to share.

“Nobody wants to see me, Sam. Nobody really wants one of us in the sheets. You should have thought twice. We have five minutes left. Let let me read it one more time.” she taunted in glassy still tone:

“I’m the man you need! Do you believe my Word when I say women are the weaker sex? Call me old fashioned but I’m man enough to want an angel in the streets and devil in the sheets! LOL I’ve broken a few hearts and you’re not the last. Are you strong enough to take a chance?!”

“You have a couple seconds left, Sam. Anything else for the camera? Anything for the parents of the girls I found? The ones I could talk to and the ones too broken to?” Angel asked.

“No! Are you…? Are you real?”

Sams sobs were real now. They always are when you feel your cord tug across the gray bridge.

“Of course, honey. I’m the lover you asked for and lady you never expected.”

Seconds to spare, now she was clearly smiling, once again. Every hundred years, seconds span for such a burnt soul undone.

“Oh honey, nobody believes angels are real until they meet one.”


“Blake and Black”

Thursday, June 8th 2017 – 10:51pm

“Blake and Black”

In the beginning, there was a bright light. When they smash your facade, it does not go red or black, but bathes your brains in a cooling white.

Stand aside, next to none, next to nothing, next to the crying version of yourself. Don’t worry, we will protect that little kid, both you and I. He looks familiar, doesn’t he? It’s our future movements they keep mirroring. 

Blame it on my damage, but what is your malfunction, soldier? When did fortune forfeit your fruit from the tree of life, traded for the love of so called holy men confides and missing bona fides? 

How warm is that tattered quilt at night? I gag on your dirty cups and laugh at her sister’s sideways looks. I never cared for the praise of men anyway. Please, take your broken legs and help yourself to mine on the way out.

Then he spake unto them in parables.

Elusive. Coy. Cute. Poor conduct for one of old holy summits, but you get used to the silence. We all miss Him and talk to Him every night and day.

I’ll be your weak thing. I’ll shame your drink tank with rants and visions. Our sort of think must be contained within the four walls of science or faith and you’ve yet to honor either.

The third refuge, a freedom I am not allowed to share with you.  

Pat my back. Pat my head. Pat your knife instead. I’m happy to go love blind to your back burning deadly intent.

But my crew isn’t.

They’re always watching.

More than you.

You should learn to watch for me and the riders four.

We’re coming for you.

With Him.

And a vengeance. 

Home for a Stone

Thursday, June 1st, 2017 – 1:21 am

And the LORD spake unto Moses face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend. – Exodus 33:11

Vallejo, CA 1974

Robert Nulph was the first best friend I loved and lost. They didn’t warn me on Reservations or Naval bases that I was ever transient. I didn’t care if they called me white trash, just the fact it was true. Each friend I make is blandly peeled and razed, quick like band-aids. But the pain and quiet hate never quite fade away.

At five, I began to store beatings and traumas into places I ought not have, under the bed, in my closet and head, in a fleet of terrors and sweats. I wound the wounds in music and math, numbers and letters, the barest potions of magic.

But I love too much.

Too deep. Too vividly. I have no face for him yet still see the flame of the heart of that friend. For short time, it waved the smoke and slowed the bleed. I only recall and will never forget his name. It may be the last one I say.

Each Mare Island morning, I was the pat and patter of mind your manners and minor disasters. I would lay awake late and get up first to get into everything. And I do not mean getting into mere trouble per se. I got into everything possible. And trouble is one lone sin and sinkhole in that infinite hot dessert.

First up. Again. I confirmed everyone was sleeping, so my covert work remain clandestine. I read every book. Little and big, with breasts and beasts and faith in wrath and endless torture with fire for those who are wilful and unwilling.

I peeked down the same stairs that Bloody Mary would have thrown me and there was the thunder below. At bottom lay the cracked remains of mom’s screaming and crying the night before. Broken spines, torn stories and lives and whole worlds flayed open. The bookcases and curses she threw down the stairs at dad the night before were beyond salvage.

That night, the screaming was louder and eternal as all wars are scripted. It was shortly replaced by sirens. Not to save me. They never save you. Never. I’m sorry, but nobody told me and you should know the truth.

The next morning, I creeped downstairs and unlocked the kitchen door leading to the joint courtyard of our row of apartments. We lived in 254 McDougal. You had to get up extra early to fool me or set foot on our back porch before I was up. I was ever anxiously awaiting precious sugar in the yogurt delivered once a week. The blackberry and sour white curd only edible by mixing in the sugary jam. The peach and strawberry and blueberry alternates were a few other favorites.

The milkman had not delivered my stuff yet and yet the sun was high enough for me take a few steps out back onto the grass. 

Halfway across the twenty foot divide of grass, our yard dipped down sharply. The backside of the building behind us was at a slightly lower level than ours because of that.

It was the same hill where dad clutched the loop of silver steel behind my Schwinn seat. He had carefully jogged aside me down the hill the day he got me that first yellow bike. 

The next morning I tried to go down by myself and landed in a heap at the bottom with a handlebar jabbed into my side. I started to throw up, the pain was too sharp. I shook it off and refused to forgive him for failing to warn me of the danger life posed to me.

That last morning, I slipped barefoot across wet clover to the source of the screams and sirens the night before. For the first time, they drowned out ours. The orange that glowed across the street was now shards of glass and licks of black soot up the side of the windows.

At the bottom was glass and plaster, a wet and charred bear, snapped and melted bits of a mobile, wires and plastic parts of the humidifier that malfunctioned.

They say that started the fire in the baby’s room.

My best friend Robert walked up and said hello in the gray of almost morning. I asked if he heard the sirens the last night and if he’d heard about the baby. We didn’t know if it ever lived. His eyes got big when he saw the puddles and mud fused with part of toys and trinkets. I told him to forget about it. Don’t you dare touch the already innocent and abused.

His eyes hardened and he asked why I had to move away.

I did not know. 

I said it was because my dad hates me. 

Every best friend of mine was taken away from me by God and man. So I simply stopped having them to lose.

And their hearts each broke as hard as my own. I knew it. I felt each slice stored in the searing silences.
I tried not to love or feel anything after losing my friend Robert.

It didn’t work.

At first.

Southampton, NY 1984

I saved up for my Saint Tropez and endured the extra weight of the cheaper, heavier frame than most of my friend’s bikes. I couldn’t ride it enough. I have infinite steam. I’ll never die.

I used superior peripheral to pretend to not look as I shot out of Oak avenue, perpendicular to Noyak.

Half of those words were ones my giant friend Wayne wouldn’t want to see on a test. I smoked weed with him because he stayed back twice and was as huge as I was tiny. I was always the one to bloody and bruise in a new town, usually once a year.

Our four years in Southampton were four times longer than each previous home.

I yelled out to Wayne. He had his back facing me, raking leaves of the yard across Noyak from his own. He didn’t want trouble despite being one of the few kids big enough to dole it out. He didn’t want to get his beer money from stealing from the cars and summer homes. I had tested most every home in North Sea and dragged any willing to pilfer with me. We stole boat engines and motorcycles. We danced over the chance of a shotgun welcome with every forced entry. Modern window lock design is now Buck knife resistant. You’re welcome.

The screech of tires told me my dream would now come true. The wheel was spinning and I already read the end credit. I was supposed to die by nineteen. My dad saw it too.

The first time tires tried to judge me wanting, I was back on McDougal street. Deep breaths. The grill of the cadillac was still bouncing to the left of me – close enough to touch – when it finally stopped. My mom saw it from the house and scrambled to grab the baby and come get me.

I kept insisting to my second grade teacher I was fine. When mom ran over to check on me, I thought I was doing just fine in the corner.

I was not. I was rocking back and forth with my face to the wall, freezing and covered in sweat.

Add to that the two times I was knocked out cold at that same tender age and you can partly see how my shrinks find me fascinating.

The hoarse shriek of rubber and steel was behind me and then I heard the bang. The same clang my skull has felt a dozen times I should never have survived.


I never saw Wayne look scared before. I thought he was invincible. He ate Frosted Flakes for dinner with Sweet Emotion as loud as hell and decibels allow.

The panic on his face told me something was very off, so I turned back to look.

My dog Porgy was lying on Noyak in front of my neighbor’s blue Volvo. The killer stood silent, his hat and driver door in hand.

Time moves differently in trauma. It fills the universe with too much hate and love and electric and pink and dry and kin and betrayal from mortals and their torturers and lovers, the same. There pour out dead ones and ohs in the overflow and souls crash and tear, melt and mold in the dirt, next to clasps from cribs and ambulances driving away a mother who left years before. It is more than we were meant to hold and time must fold and weave within itself to make more room for the screams.

I scraped my left hand under the broken yellow back of my Corgi and my right into the puddle of skull and memories of my best friend.

I wasn’t home then. I am back there again. I’m serving time for your sins against me.

I held my dog and watched her eyes flit and fly and beg me for a reason.


Why did you hit me so hard just for following you?

I loved you with everything.

Why did you let me die?


I walked cradling the baby just as she helped hold me sane for six years of abuse.

When her eye caught mine, I looked away from her blood and brain in shame. If anyone, she didn’t deserve the universe and its lethal apathy.

I trudged passed Oak and ground through Bay, sleepwalking Noyak to the swarm of Locust.

Every car idled and driver staid silent. Every day-drinker from Hogan’s bar weaved and watched me cry like a girl, shirt drenched with an impossible flood of blood from the truest one I’d met, ever loyal and loving.

After the minutes and years it took me to walk three blocks, I dug my knees into the garden in front of Aunt Betty’s window and set Porgy in the grass one last time. Her lone eye was circling slower now. Her warm frame was cooling and all softness fading from us.

I’m still there. She is buried and almost at rest now.

I still refuse to let anyone else touch the shovel.