Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

The poem is a pied piper for the rats in my mind

The Sunday Dispatch 1.10.21

stay with me


guided thru spaces


amazed by grace

and its subtle advantage


sailing a ship out of time

on waves of unease composed


holding fast

to the endless horizon



a knife like night


swift from shadow

a coming known

all the while



an element of stealth

holds true…


the dread of expectation

carried far too long


thru a cold enduring darkness

that may never have needed

to be.


ruin gardens  


too much thought trapped

in the concussive spaces

behind the eyes


staining instinct

with the colors of emotion


second guesses

thrice removed


a subtle eviction

from spaces of soul


epiphanies denied

in search of a brighter void


running on the fumes

of some forgone conclusion

that anything happens for a reason


while slowly

dying on the vine

of false fruition


forever striving

to be brave enough

to believe the truth

of our own convictions.


beside the point


lifted from meaning

beyond the reach of reason


in the bright shadow

of dancing flame


life becomes life

amidst the golden

cacophony of silence.




snug in a dark dream


pleasantly haunted in the low light

of the conscious attic


you remembered me

and took my hand


as we kissed

until our awakenings

pulled us apart. 


“One common wire

One sliver thread

All that you desire

Rolls on ahead.”

  • Patti Smith

The Sunday Dispatch 1.3.21

as the night turns blue


stalking the lonely hunter of the heart

word by word thru the wilds of solitary otherness


too stoned on hope

to remember the burning quickness

of love’s last leaving


while tracing its scar

down the page.


last flight out


years’ worth of days

left somewhere else


the nights soon to follow

deeper down the well of oblivion


until a somehow semblance

of sanity graced the darkness


a gift of light

lifting life right side up


and all i had to do was let go

of the very heart that saved me.


love story


always lingering

some dream somewhere


where it all starts and ends

so much better


but nothing means anything now

and it’s easier that way


(more that nothing means nothing, i guess,

and anything else is everything,

if that makes any sense)


relieved of all the weight

attached to all those moments

and chances thought missed


when in fact

it’s all still here





and ever present

within all the moments

to come.


hope turns a key


crying lightning

down in a ditch

of dead dreams


shaking ashes

from our wings

and broken stars

from our hair


eyes alight

with intent and purpose


we find we have fallen

only to rise again.




caught by the mirror’s deflection

an image returned to sand and stone


a dream to glisten

in the needled light


a reason to be still


implying a change of direction

in the lick of the wind


and a slightly altered course

to make all the difference.


“Go to the limits of your longing…

Let everything happen to you: beauty

and terror. Just keep going. No feeling

is final.”

  • Rainer Maria Rilke


The Sunday Dispatch 12.27.20

soon enough


precedence taken

by instinct and momentum


knowing never

the shifting ground

to settle


but stretches remain…


to focus and forge further

keeping heart in sync with soul


so that the means

will justify the ends


and love may again begin.


thinning the herd


quarters and thirds

running on the fumes

of vapidity and rumor


stalled in notions

of heredity and tradition


fighting the truth

with everything but


doomed to choose a baseless battle

in the race to the grave



to the selective nature

evolution lends to survival.


sentries of the heart


laced with shadow

keeping watch

amidst the undertow

of passion


wary of wanting

wise of will run riot


stationed in the empty spaces

between the lonely hours


ever ready and willing

to some day surrender.


down season


gone ahead

in the left behind


soul stalled

in the long of the night


the years

nothing more

than a day in the life

thru karma’s window



by the praying knees

of altered consciousness


hail the storm and drag

of weighing anchors


drunk and tea totaled

on the last wave of light


where the distance

removed from the shore

is all there ever is to know.


once and for all


chaos ordered

by the reigns of reason


bombardment deciphered

by sense and awareness


breath will seek the air

peace will find the mind


the light will forever return


to the heart

and the mind

that is always open.


“I broke something today

and I realized I should break

something once a week to remind me

how fragile life is.”

  • Andy Warhol

The Sunday Dispatch 12.20.20



all in the undoing

loosening the holds

to make way for better grips


remastering old ways

with brighter vibes


hope sprung

from the dead air

in the spaces between


a ruin unwrought

from the broken road

bending again

towards the light.


the night we burned down


bows taken

in strange corridors


wheeled away only

to return apart


madness tremored

soon to break the bones

of love


as the short

and final straw

was drawn.




nothing beyond the day

yet still the moments sputter at times


snagged on a thread of desolation

spinning down the well


chasing an uncatchable breath

as the sharpened gears turn


thru the bowels of the hours.


dread and the known unknown



in the dark endeavors

of the psyche



the still moments

of presence


an almost impenetrable impasse remains


ever tempting the soul

to give up its chase

for peace of mind.




teeming with low light

cloaked in small hours of contentment


far from the work and worry

on the other side of the sun


there is a soft and quiet space to occupy

beneath the watchful eye of a solitary candle


providing safe passage

thru another night.


“Break a vase, and the love that

reassembles the fragments is stronger

than the love that took its symmetry

for granted when it was whole.”

  • Derek Walcott



The Sunday Dispatch 12.13.20

day for night


turning times

coiled in the habit

of routine


recklessness abandoned

for the steady flow of light

and time


horizon wide

the heart follows suit


trading states of confusion

for matters of trust


done with mirrors

of bitter reflection


and the towering shadows

that separate past from presence.


so slowly gone


love before the eyes

a wick and a spark


a wax moon

burning down

to an empty glass


all the ways we turn

torn thru and worn out


and though the heart

be mercilessly beaten


one final kiss

is all we ask.


etymology of reality


be it virus

or divinely inspired


to each our own perspective

from the cave inside the mind


from the spaciousness

of peaceful psychic plains


to the narrows

of pride and prejudice


to see how we are

is to be who we are


we exist

both in relation to

and independent from

our selfness and our otherness



of our own destiny


reliant only

upon the moments of decision


in the ether between

thought and action.


same old song


dead hearts beaten

as passion burns like the red on a rose…


this night no different

than thousands before


loneliness breeds a certain kind of strength


at least enough

to endure yourself

and whatever madness may hold you

until love takes its place.


the last rights of longing


dreaming of a night such as this

cold enough to burn…


when it all adds up

when the darkness all makes sense

when the heart finally falls into place


and all the waiting

can finally be put to rest.


“The struggle itself towards the heights

is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must

imagine Sisyphus happy.”

  • Albert Camus

The Sunday Dispatch 12.6.20

trajectory of the heart


down in flames

or up in arms


of all the ways to go

destinations never known


often to break

but never to harden


tasks taken time and again

ever held open long after closing time


in high tide and low light

we all are the last bastion

of love’s true home.


dear departure


as blind as time around the bend

in the rush of all things come and gone


there shines a different light

than ever seen before


in each moment

we tend not dare to forget


when we finally remember

who we’ve always been.


sometimes gone  



on the moon

of my mind


staring out

into the blank darkness

of inception and demise

and everything

in between


i can’t help but wonder

how we ever find the light.


it was a long way down, but i needed to go


nothing tastes like death


i can still feel it sometimes

in the back of my mind


systems shutting down

reality untethered


lost in strange places inside myself

shook and touched


a palpable madness of the darkest ingredients

embedded in my being to this very day


and all the reason i need

to keep things straight and narrow


in the broadest and brightest terms of a better life

for the sake myself and everyone i love.


shelter of the soul


the void inside the flame

from the darkness of ignition


bursting forth

from shame to glory


as everything waiting to be

suddenly becomes


an instant

of infinite arrival


where everyone is safe

beyond the bounds of time.


“…let the mind beware, though the flesh

be bugged, the circumstances of

existence are pretty glorious.”

  • Jack Kerouac



The Sunday Dispatch 11.29.20

scorpions and unicorns


under the sun

and behind the eyes


beneath the canopies

of cosmic consequence


we fathom equations

and navigate the stars


only to always stumble

upon the same answer

over and over:



is ever

in control.


the unwinding bend


coming into view

beneath the season of decay


what slowly rises

from the abyss


is either

the beacon of

a new beginning


or the tail lights

of our last chance



stimulants and source codes



on the fumes

of thin air



between weak connections

into the red nights

of unfair warning


shots parted

thru loose wires

and enlarged pupils


slowly engulfed

as the once healing technology

now breeds a nation

of invalids


with none

but ourselves

to blame.




wiser times beyond us

one can only hope


these days seem dark

even after the eventual

changing of the guard


so be right

with who and what

you are


because the meantime

often has a way of becoming

a whole lot worse than expected


if you’re not paying attention.


left and leaving be


patterns unbecoming


hard fought habits

eventually eased into submission


from sharp shoves

to gentle nudges


a long, long road’s worth

of dust inhaled and swallowed



there is only here

to contend with


and whatever it has to offer

is all i need.


“Sun and moon move like a river,

light and dark; just sparks from a stone.”

  • Han Shan

The Sunday Dispatch 11.22.20

bright spot


idled threats

of aggressive malaise


boisterous bellows

from bottomed out



meshed and grating

unmoved by gentle friction


the alpha echelons

grope for fistful after fistful more

than anyone’s fair share


teetering off the top

into their sad little pools

of powerless pride


an inevitable eventuality

well worth its karmic weight

in gold.  


in with the out, out with the in


fallen from dream

into the stranger day


walking the highway

to the low side of the road


ever sensing a perception of intent

to appreciate the experience

of joy and happiness


that rises

from every past darkness



learning lines


none too concerned

with death and taxes


the long days started early

often without the longer nights

even ending


from one vice to another

ends only meeting to pass each other by


the means the only matter


creeping ever closer

to that one last shot


over every edge after

with nothing else to break

but the fall. 


finding home


landing hopeful and haggard

nothing waiting but the hard ground

of a much longer road


farther from the day one

than ever imagined

and far lonelier than expected


finally growing accustomed

to this solo flight


with its dips and dives

its peaks and plateaus


and all its kisses goodbye.


stones and crows


sinking skyward

all but dream and love is true

to those beyond its boundless grasp


cracked by clouds

of salt and whisper


cutting the shapes of mountains

into sacred ground


while the eyes of every storm

watch in awe.  


“The size of the place one becomes a

member of is limited only by the size

of one’s heart.”

  • Gary Snyder

The Sunday Dispatch 11.15.20

beneath a broken flag


if unity

gleams no more


still the sun will rise

still the days will come


even as division

reaps its dividends


and atrocities are uncondemned


our compassion

will never be overruled


our persistence

will be unmatched


and victory will

never be out of reach.


beacon of awakening


up from the earth


signals rising

a flicker in the din


power transitions

thru the veins of a leaf


tracing its lines

back to the light.


end of ends


rolling thru

veiled in shadow


a steady hum

beneath the wave


burning on

defiant in the downpour


grown stronger

from the storm


and more peaceful

despite the pain.


bones in the attic 


only your own ghosts

will haunt you


in the corridors

between the last chance

and the next


hiding in the alcoves


blowing out the candles

in the chapels of your mind


rattling the blinds

on the windows to

your soul


all the missed chances

all the lost love


calling your name

from the clouds upon

winter’s tongue.


long lost


slow the burn

from bitter pills swallowed


ways gone south

only to mend the brokenness

that follows


once here

now gone


once gone

now here


steps retraced

to every new destination


and still

so much more

that remains to be seen.


“The secret of joy is the mastery of pain.”

  • Anais Nin


The Sunday Dispatch 11.8.20

rain me a river


as another stroke of midnight

hovers in the dark blue distance


i wish to dream of you


dancing upon a thunderhead

in the clouds of the smallest hours


my eyes searching your flourished lightning

for a better salvation that what waits

upon my waking.




the broken beat

of this dark red heart

echoes in the gray afternoon


fooled and felled

by the love least likely



have become

the breakings


far too many

to not have learned

the lesson


yet here i am

fragments scattered

in unrequited reachings


toward those

who would really rather not

fall my way.


wild once


sheltered from the mad city

as riotous joy explodes thru the night


times ago it might have been me out there

on fire with victory and hopeless abandon


with no reason not to paint the town

every goddamned night


in for a penny

in for a pound


but some lines we cross silently

somewhere near the half-century mark


maybe knowing better

maybe just tired


cutting our losses

and sitting more out than in


content to have lived thru it before in one way

and live thru it now in another


maybe just feeling grateful to still be around

long enough to see things from the other side.


crooked lines


for real is all games and gamble

fate nothing more than a spinning twister


ripping things up from the root

and heaving them every which way


chaos is the norm

nothing ever makes sense


it is only our mind filling in the gaps

that makes it seem that way


we are here and not

always and never


and that

is all.


don’t be long



circles remain



let go

to drift

with the debris


assuming the best for now

and for the sake of these words

solitude need be my lot.


“Midnight shakes the memory

As a madman shakes a dead


  • T.S. Eliot