By Leviathan (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (, via Wikimedia Commons

A cricket forlorn on the fire escape,

a regularity in the nightspace

grounds the beginning of fall.


On my Twitter feed,

people comment on the #VPdebate.

It is clear, from their collective insight,


that a strong performance is not predicated

on truth.


The refrain of a lone cricket

outside my window

is more than enough.




We should both be asleep, but there are times
when sleep ain’t befitting.
It’s not the thing we need.
We crave congress
of spirit,
pagan revue
of throttled mind, synthesis
of sounds better left unspoken.

It’s been so long since I’ve written anything direct
it’s like my fingers are numb
sausages tracing
through ice. I can’t break through
to what I want to form your mind around, even as
it hangs there,
hovering, like a shadow of someone about to be seen from behind
a curtain.
Drunkards yell
in the street outside, gypsy cabs
sounding as they pass. Then it is quiet, relatively,
meaning the absence of yelling,
the hum of an alleyway

I lose something
of myself each day, biting
back my wonder. I turn
into something categorically
It’s too easy to let life slip
into something

Let others speak up
to die in shame in front of everybody.
Let’s wait and see
how life pans


How can a word mean something simultaneously
dry-as-cowshit and wet-as-coitus?
legislators slouching through ursine assemblies,
people fucking, copulating sweaty,
slapping grunting spitting?

But such is how laws get made, perhaps,
in the real world.
In the dusty heat with
the iron smell of blood everywhere, territory
negotiated by want.
You can smell the residue of this power
on the marble colonnades as you cross
the street of the capitol.
Sop up
the slick bitter innards of the appointed
with your hobo bread
then blame them for the acid bile residue
left trickling up your tight

We are too tense
to be human, we
have no time for our own

There’s no escaping our hunger.
Each moment we compromise,
our ancestors screaming.

On this naked white plain,
where our eyes once did meet,
god bless your sordid soul
as I lay me down to sleep.

To Make It Here

To make it here means to push the soul

to the side, be buried alive,

willingly enslaved to something future.


We’ve made it, you and I,

we’re so fortunate to be able to put away

our lives somewhere to never be used

except in the case of a dream

or a nightmare.


This fear we have is of

each other, our own skin

surrounding us, not quite there

where we need it to be,

away and safe, secured against



I once asked
how close to the earth must I sway,
sweeping in the wind
like a broken tree?

But I have grown a bit
since that time.

That question was centered all around
my struggle; my need.
As if the world
should work for

A better question may be–
how close to another person can I get,
to know love
in every breath?

The world has riven
me, and will continue breaking
waves against any stance I assume.
But I can bend, and learn, and grow.

In the end,
I want there to be found nothing
but gratitude in my heart.

In Passing

If I could just stop


to put you in a frame,

to capture the light around you,

to glorify and rhapsodize you

in exactly the way that you were meant to be seen,

apart from the grime and glitter of the washed up

everyday surface,

then I would get down on bended knee

right here in the middle of the street

to take the picture.

But who will believe in it?

Am I the only witness?

I will simply watch

without taking

a thing.

Moon Drop

The moon, shimmering

beneath the surface of your understanding,

a weighted pull towards the inevitable.

Tell me that I am something more

than what I allow myself to be.

Let me be that glimmer of translucent

mercury in the deep sea bottom,

trawling for subsistence.

A watery unseeing eye,

opaque from your desire.

Uncompromising in lonely despair,

an empty surface

of shapes.