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throwing stones

skipping across the surface
a rebounding repeating breaking of tension
the ripples breaking then becoming the silence
memories of
nights spent laughing too loudly
holding a wine glass too tightly
playing at memorized movements and
awkwardly advancing into an adulthood
you neither wanted nor felt obligated to
minute by minute the odds tipping further.
how do you feel safe
how do you move forward
when every step is a second chance
taken too soon?

the truth

The truth?
It is about the money.
I do care.
I loved each of them
in some way.
But I’m not sure I can
feel love.
I question my own
I am often paralyzed
by inaction.
Usually my own.
I don’t owe you anything.
I lie when I have to.
Or when money is involved.

Isn’t that the truth?

and also some humor



aerial assault and battery
a love potion of heavy machinery
freely firing on a now delicate
state of confusion.

wiping away the emotional grey matter
that once decorated my inner vocabulary
i choke on words i cannot form
waiting for the echo

i touch the now to the then
to create an explosion of should.
memories that never were
shatter into the street below
shards of possibility piercing the fresh snow.

this must have been what it felt like
before tomorrow could take hold -
cold, silent, free.

static signals

at first it was the poetry.
i didnt care for it anymore.
tight and awkward it rubbed
blisters against my soles
like a pair of ill fitting shoes.
i was willing to live with this loss.
and the blisters healed.
but then one morning
you were making coffee
and it was your adverbs.
the only thing they brought clarity to
was your lack of depth.
even the french roast was cloudy.
progressively i lost the ability to tolerate
most of your nouns and verbs.
i found myself staring past you
as you spoke
i imagined i was at a baseball game,
listening to the crowd’s roar.
in the end, i could only bear to hear you hiss
the smooth sound of the letter s.
anything more caused me
chronic headache and indigestion.

in silence you were everything
i had always dreamed

but the noise.


we can provide you with a small alcove
for gathering your thoughts.
and five hundred and four hours a year
to spend with your family.
all we need from you is the unrelenting sedentary pursuit
of more for us and less for you.
this is a chance to be a part of something big,
this is the american dream,
the epitome of prosperity,
you will find yourself in a nirvana of success.
trust me. i should know.
oh, and there is a dance in December – a fundraiser
for kids with cancer – you should bring your wife.


warm nights and brightly lit skies
like fireflies and children playing soccer
in an abandoned lot behind a warehouse
reminders that spring will always come.
i used to watch the boats coming and going
and wonder if they had anywhere to go
now i know it doesn’t matter,
it never mattered.
there was a time when i knew everything
i didn’t heard the hands of the clock dropping
while i made my calculations
steady and purposeful.
i should have just dropped my bag and run
spring would come no matter

in a tent a group of children laugh
shine flashlights on one another
and understand that there is no wrong.
they will all grow older
making decisions every step of the way
one will die young
a victim of her own immortality
another, the blonde, will fall short of expectations
lost youth, lost beauty, just lost
another disappears
no one will hear from her again
but she grows old and happy
somewhere in the distance.
tonight though, they are children
the world waits patiently for them
they will come
there is no other option.

i want to see the moon rise over Sounion
hear the rush of the ocean
as i drift to sleep
the coming and the going
the consistent, steady beat of the waves
as the spring gives way to the summer
as the war wages on
as we learn patience
and laughter.

you were never a poet

a life lived successfully
almost laughable
where is your happiness
where is your accomplishment
i am an afterthought
to you the world is a problem
for me the world is
the land of suburban
twenty-first century decay
a single family
a projected future
within the context of my scripted past
in my dreamless sleep
the odds are always stacked
in your memory i am eighteen
and we are infinite children
this is the way it should be
this is how we move on


in the future i sleep soundly
i don’t wake up
when my dreams fail me
when i fail
when i fall
i imagine i grow taller
and strong
i learn to fight
my feet fly when i run
in the future i am able
i beat god
at his own game
and i sleep

were we lovers?

when were we lovers?
i dont
the way your lips felt
pressed firmly into
did our hearts ever beat
in time
there must be some photo
some trinket
to prove you
we were
love does not linger
like a matchstick
you burned
hot and bright
and i am transfixed by your flame
and then you were
were we lovers?
i dont