Tuesday, April 8

Listening to music makes the sky less lonely and other lies

December 2013
We listened
Like the music was round
And had a hole in the middle
And we were sinking
In the freezing Atlantic ocean

We listened as if the music was a clear glass of water
For throats parched like the desert

We listened like music was a special thread
For sewing up bad analogies
Like broken hearts

We listened but
The songs kept ending

We listened
And in November
Were mostly thankful for
The comforting lull of repetition

A silly piece written at the end of my Philosophy of Music course


scribbles from a million years ago, i couldn't make them flow the way i wanted. time to bite the bullet.

Do words come
wet off the tongue
but dry from the page?
Or am I erroneously assigning texture
to intangibles?

Time cuts the top off the moon with a scalpel
while I
sit under its weight
and wax philosophic
on these
over-parsed themes

Thursday, June 13

"Judgemental and Pretentious Poetry"

A hairy sort of drunkenness 
Enters the room. 
It's spinning, spinning, slinging,
Screeching about,
"This is how we are now. This is how we are."
The sloppy generation.
Your unexamined licentiousness 
Has (in all probability)
Been artificially injected.

Round up the drunken girls
Saying, "this one for spite, this one for vanity, this one for inexcusable ignorance, 
et al. etc. all of the above 
Pausing for reflection
(A breath of brief lucidity),
One wonders, that if
The multitude use a variety of half truths
To slide by the daily
How many does it take you?
A sort of identification-
Your socially secure number.

We lie to the self same lips that speak/
We are inventor slash believers 
Saying "this is how I was am and will be."

(One may easily fill in the blanks with additional absurd vagaries)

Saturday, April 6


Some of us order up the melancholy
For naught but two letter reaons,
Simple and easy to spell-- but grave.

The grave, yes;
Have you recently considered
How we clockwork deal with death

Humanity and fauna aside,
Have you forgotten that midnight rots yesterday
Rots yesterday
Rots yesterday

And little consolation is derived
From the knowledge that it lives on
An hour down the horizon.

That's merely tangential
And I cannot be bothered to think
about math while I am mourning.

Thursday, March 14

Travel log

My oh my-
As i
Settle into my assigned seat
All my variable ducks are finally in their rows
And i can strip off the thinking tension
Like a sweaty vestment at the end of a long day.

But, it's morning and instead my feet tap
The impatient dance- Morse code for
'It's beginning.'

Sunday, February 17

This is my best

Beg Pardon for Misbehaving; Disown Limbs

My god dam hands are what get me in trouble
When I all suddenly feel less than human
They are still there; perfectly capable
of operation: Joystick of the World
When I need to be ethereal in wavers
Like a ghost until I can climb back down

The(y)re still, my electric plug-ins
Magnet pull to my body sharp objects
Inspect and separate skin cells with
Simple machine: wedge
Discussion is only possible from
Such a re-frozen point of view
Its my goddam hands