Life, Love, Poetry, Writing


When he was wrong
(which was more often than not)
He turned my lap into an alter,
Tonguing out his prayers of gratitude
For my mercy and grace.
He thanked me for my constancy;
That I did not forsake him,
Though he was undeserving
And for forgiving his sins,
While knowing he would sin again.
I heard his prayers
With the serenity of the ocean
And stroking his head,
Answered in the one language he could not understand
is mine.”

Life, Poetry, Writing


I should want more than this.

Friday night and I just stepped out of the shower
After midnight, listening to D’Angelo through the unworthy speakers on my phone, alone
The fan’s on, dusty breeze touching my bare shoulders and arms
Legs draped over the arm of my couch

Your inner view, to me
Is something that I, do desire
Struggling 2 see, a new,
Smething that I, fantasize
So I’m sending

What more could I want, than this?

Life, Poetry

Another Night Poem

I like the moonrise of things,

the soft embrace of glowing darkness.


the whispered caress of warm wind

and cicadas sighing in the still night sound.

New York—

I breathe your heavy stilted smell,

weighted with dreams and mincing heartache,

stormy twilight breath, charged with loving lust, playful apathy


where the air isn’t fresh enough,

my windows cannot open wide enough,

to engulf the entire city,

to wrap it ’round me and feel the shifting flicker of each denizen’s eyelash,

mid-blink, mid-breath, mid-scream.

Where am I ever, but here?


a solitary, singular soul

plotting permanence in prose and poetry

in the quiet buzzing  darkness.