Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

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

the sunday times 12.1.19

all go where they go


time to time

inside the mind


calm to chaos

emotions set in motion


deep in the ache of longing

yet fueled by a joyous fire


balancing breakdowns

with better days


everything has its place


and it is always



new darkness


jagged in recurrence

the natural forces within


none too immune

but better now harnessed


shining black sheen

as bright as beauty

and just as soothing


an act of balance

and acceptance


continuously challenged


by this seemingly unbalanced

and unaccepting world.


a little more


cut paths from thin air

reaction chains slowly breaking


provoking persistence

from depths of despair


it all comes around

until it no longer remains


transmissions received

upon impermanent waves


grains of thought slipping thru the ether

poking holes in our personal theories


perspective betrayed

by a few steps removed


feel from the inside

the bones on muscle


the muscle on skin

the skin on air


the light is within all of us

and all of us the light.


the echo of bone


canyons deep

like the hollows

of the heart


centuries of symphony

in seconds of storm


every truth revealed

on an infinite loop


and nobody listening

but the darkness.


“Why should it be so hard to give up

seeking something you know you can’t possess?”

  • Lew Welch

the sunday times 11.24.19

emptiness and grace


mining charnel ground

to slay and let go


unserved purpose

of ego and recurrence


always around again

never fully thwarted


but to know its presence

is not to heed its call


tilling bone and soil

unmoved by ornaments of charm

and adoration


toward the infinite finality

of notions preconceived.


dark places


no thought comes

without its chains of memory


condition conforms

pressure shapes


arriving in departure

halfway gone before

feet touch ground


clouds emerge and surround

as we spin the carousel

of emotional baggage


endlessly entranced

by everything but now.


up on luck


as fate would have it

if there is such a thing


we burn inside of ourselves

the center of our being engulfed


bleeding the light

or charred to a cinder


obviously oblivious

to all the ways thru


at times all so unbearable

the keeping or the letting go


the grounding or

the endless flight


always something

to pick at or prize


some form of need or approval

not being met, or, in fact, surpassing

our wildest dreams


so we grasp and cling

or turn and deny


until we finally realize

there is nothing that can be hidden

and that everyone already knows the secrets


but most remain unable

to even tell themselves.


miles from nowhere


long casts the shadow

of years spent in the ghost-town

of the heart

with a grave-digger’s smile

and a mind full of holes


brushed and dusted

stoned and rusted

stalemated on a checkerboard

of black and white lies

pulling the shades down

and the covers up

bloody, unwell, and somewhat

mostly dazed…


but now

to trace back the long road

without looking away


the wreckage of roses and broken promise

still smolder like a conquered city


and as that red sky distance slowly fades

i can finally find solace


in giving up any hope

of having a better past.


“Some nights stay up till dawn

as the moon sometimes does for the sun.

Be a full bucket pulled up the dark way

of a well, then lifted out into light.”

  • Rumi

the sunday times 11.17.19

always something


low heart

high hopes


stuck somewhere in between



only brings sadness

as of late


since the last fall


as far from close

as nowhere can get


crawling in love

from the last place

she left me.


dear darkness


unmasked in the light of death

the night wreaks of smoke


red moon witness

to incineration


ashen morning

of lifelines severed


the choke and tether

of possession released


subjugating the wild

for our caves and kingdoms


for we deserve

nothing less.


by the light of the fire


crack and flicker

gone in a flash


this burning plague

year after year


the choking air of october rolls in


the sky alight

with panic and loss


the red and strobe

of sirens and blare


signaling autumn

in los angeles.


in the weeds of wild and wonder


dark light mind

caught in waves of oblivion


eyes hovering alight


everywhere this presence

this joy

this sorrow


the weighted heart held aloft

by silver cords and sleight of hand


high above the seas of madness

that mirror our every move.


points of contact



there is no there



touch wood

or ground

or skin


bring home the mind from wander


mired in the past

or drawn to the future


from the base of now

we grow


and become

who we are.


“The measure of your life is the amount of beauty

and happiness of which you are aware.”

  • Agnes Martin

the sunday times 11.10.19

come and go


…and here again

another gone day

made better


alive in time

simple truth



letting go

the complications

of the heart


just to rest

in the light of solitude


and be on my way.


this mantle


now back when

the streets fall away

into a gray forgetful slumber


tension present

amidst an alternate ease


as veins fill with light

lifting the veiled heart

from its shallow grave


trails of dust and footprints

that lead away reveal small victories

holding mountains in place


far from the silver corded skyscrapers

overlooking the aimless youth and young manhood


that has forever been leading

to where i now stand.


fall in the valley


night between the canyons

wrapped in a calm chill

of what’s to come


shorter the days

to wait for darkness


signaling the approach

of another year’s midnight


a witching season past

and a christ to come too soon


then a few days grace before

everything starts all over again


still a bit far off for now

so we’ll go on like things will never end


searching for humanity in the suffering


like everyone does

everywhere else.


nest of clouds


closely followed

ghostly gray


mourning rising

with mist alive


uncaged from dream

to drift the minded miles


from hour to hour

imperfectly still


at rest in motion

toward havens unknown.


“Down to radiant dust

fall the curtains of past time.”

  • Gregory Corso

the sunday times 11.3.19



lungs dusted

with glitter

and embers


last light leaving

thru the chambers

of the heart


love soldiers on across

battlefield after battlefield


engines sputter

before kicking back in


lock step rhythm

with bloodrush and bile


to turn on a dime

as destiny changes direction


from the pit of the stomach

to the heart of the sun


we burn

and burn.




pulling tides from

pictures of the moon


cycles phasing

thru the undertow


graded reluctance gives way

to the slightest expectation


the rose brightens the hue

as the colors begin to show


love wins again


and everything

is lost.


deem worthy


sometimes chaos

clears the path better

than anything else


picking off the disinterested

while placating the trouble makers


feeding distraction

to the easily swayed


honing the truth

of a different kind of knowledge


for one that sinks beneath the surface

and finds rise in the falling


is one who endures

and leaves the trail

as it was


for others not to follow

but to find on their own.





piled and waiting


pure and unscattered


returned to some semblance of order

by way of storm and upheaval


blindness lapsed

we see the good

that can grace our presence


if only we take the time

to stop and look.


“The world asks of us.

only the strength we have and we give


Then it asks for more, and we give it.”

  • Jane Hirshfield “The Weighing”


the sunday times 10.27.19

sunday somewhere


truth to remain


in the hollow of the heart

where light waits for love


becoming another

faithful reminder


of hope at its best.




up from the plains

beneath the bleeding stones


no words

from gods

or statues


rolling claps of thunder

then silence


just a storm

of natural chemistry


bringing down the lights

to bring the beauty of darkness

into better focus


no divinity demanding miracles

no life but the stories we weave


heart into heart

spirit into spirit


nothing goes away

but everything.


golden shore


sweeping the garden

every stone is turned


archways perched with crows

as the fog shimmers from the inside


holding in its keep

love’s inviting distance


almost reachable

at last.


endeavor and ever


sacred grayness

amidst a temple of rain


tracing steps to now

from spaces in between


who we are and how

and where to go from here



or separate


and as each shining moment rises up


time will tell us

all we need to know.


break and tend


deep skies

in the back

of the mind


above a potter’s field

of memories unremembered


there hover the ghosts

that love could not save


but the heart

will forever



“We’re all just walking

each other home.”

  • Ram Dass

the sunday times 10.20.19

occupied space


a storehouse of symbols


everything defined becomes

perceived as real


arranged in linear memory

to give the illusion of continuity


when in fact

only in dream

is reality unveiled

as it is


unstructured precision

harmoniously random


everything all at once


ever changing

every time we

look away


an infinite topography

of everything in between

what we believe to be past

and future


our only map

to this giant nowhere

we call home.




cast stones overturned

in dark dreams of dim refuge


skin to skin

strangers and ash


safely solitary

in the rafters

of the mind


long from both passion

and peril


with nothing to feel

but loneliness.




arms aloft

strength in surrender


no use

the glitter of glory


whispered hands brush away

the scared ground


cracked slates of foundation unearthed

sturdy and becoming


grooves carved deep

in the dancing light


with new trails to blaze

toward that spark on the horizon.


between the lights


sliding thru

true to remain


slow the songs of the night

heavy the breath of longing


inside where things fall apart

constant reconstruction


reverse engineering trajectory

where even distraction has its merits


finding not what is looked for

but what is needed


right where everything

points away.


“Hold within you

a fire so great

it’d put hell to shame.”

  • Naveed Dumasia



the sunday times 10.13.19

whisper and shadow


busted radiance

tourniquet smile


plundering circulation

for the darker blood of emotion


seated deep

this haunting ache

of useful longing


a slow burn

forty-eight years long


fearing a break of no return


simply to touch

something that matters.




pointless mourning

begrudged and besmirched


time is nothing to rely on

distance remembers no love


all broken containers

of each other’s secrets


slowly flowing like lava

searing the ground beneath


our momentary history

so easily brushed away


breathtakingly inconsequential

yet construction continues


on our own personal monuments

to insignificance.




knowing the reason

does little to break the fall


still the memory

fading by association


so long now

but touched

as close as



loss lingers

purpled like a bruise

yellowed at the edges


bone deep







red light blues


still gone


burning away the hours

from the inside out


near misses

and near fatal flaws


dead tracks

armored hearts


sunlight falls

between the cracks

of whispered days


as her shadow remains in darkness


a ghost

of a ghost of

a ghost.


“We must pass thru solitude and difficulty,

isolation and silence in order to reach forth

to the enchanted place where we can dance

our clumsy dance.”

  • Pablo Neruda



Thus concludes the collection “The Heart has a Mind of its Own”

Next week begins poems from my most recent work in progress

with the working title  “A Spark on the Horizon”.

the sunday times 10.6.19

gone down


corners of rooms

call out from darkness


the weight of silence

upon the heart


the same night at the end

of every other day


almost close

but just out of reach


someone remembered somewhere


no point in detail


just another anchor to cut loose

until i catch another wave.


last of september


around again

summer burning down


not much to remember

not much to forget


status quo and still waters


the mind wanders

the heart waits


trawling the deep

resonance of solitude


ever beckoning me

to follow my own light.


scriptnotes and faultlines


angled for direction

panning out to broadened scope


pinpoint and scattershot


patchworked progress gleaned

from the finest fragments


onward turning

past silver lakes

toward cold water canyons


driving away

driven away


spirits converging

as coyotes gather in the field

beneath the radio towers

howling in the dusk


and another red night comes forth

to bleed us dry.


in spite of agony


mourning redemption

golden ways long gone


the fulcrum at the crux of foundation

leveled and admonished


with just enough light

to bring this dark knowing

into focus


whether by sadness mined

or fire branded


we all bear the scars of our escape.


what the holy see


tapping in and out

deep in the fade of forgetting


hope has many disguises

whether burned like a witch

or lost like a lover


spaces locked away until

moments of precision release


as a billion broken stars

shower the dawn of our reverie.


“Shadow can’t survive without

the sun’s bright beam,

and death hold’s life in its coat pocket,

fingers stroke it like a lucky charm”

  • Terry Wolverton





the sunday times 9.29.19

better than nothing


walls around walls


sunlight’s soft intrusion

thru the cracks allowed


the bluest vacancy of open skies

hails the day anew


gracefully mourning

another lost night


to the sorrow

of love.


dead on


cornered by exact coincidence

with enough room upon the pages

to dig and dig


seeded deep

in the echo

of memory


the breath of hungry ghosts chasing smoke…


there are places inside me

that can only be found

by words.


roll wise


urged from ledge to ledge

outbound thoughts leaving be


gentle collapse

brilliant collision


courses parsed

by glimpse and glean


periphery compromised

by bombardment


turn back the eyes

to sanctum from inertia


rest in the assurance

that you are where you are



in the dignity

of the process


forward and unfolding


there is

no end.




mile to mile

from nowhere

to here


trailing pieces of the heart

given away or just plain lost


all for the better


for the ghosts are wiser now

and the road a bit brighter


but still

as dark

as necessary.


“Loneliness is a valuable feeling.

artists need to know how to walk alone.”

  • Ai Weiwei