Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

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

The Sunday Dispatch 8.1.21

[where there’s fire]   

fighting thru 
the startled void

lost in the throes 
and rattle of death

it is not until later 
that we realize

some of the darkest places we’ve been 
is where we found the strength

to come back to life.  
[tightropes and tire irons]

subtle vagueness 
to tons of bricks

from bombardment 
comes balance

a hefty sway 
changing course 
for the better

no detours

only roads meant to be taken
to get us where we need to go

embrace the unknown adventures 
of every moment awakened

and seek nothing more 
toward which to aspire 
but your truest presence.
[crawling in love]

slow the pendulum swings
curvature catching the light

strumming heartstrings 
in the coming evening’s cool

hours like days 
in the long road mind

stronger from past pain
easier for hard times endured

a new sunset 
toward which to ride

as twilight falls 
upon the smiling summer.
[burning bones]

pacing dark rooms 
in and out of the mind

as summer’s dead heat bears down
as winter’s whiteness whirls elsewhere

searching the heart 
for the answers

night after night after night

futilely trying to fathom
how we continue to live

with all the things 
we will never understand.   

[stay sharp]

keep the middle clear
but choose your side

life itself is revolution

be the flower 
cracking thru 
the concrete

be ready 
to be the whisper 
or the scream

but be wise to which 
is called for and when

help lessen another’s load


liberate each moment 
from the shackles of time

where every blink, 
every breath is new

stand within the circle 
of persistent light even 
in your darkest hours

and though it might never be easy
if you accept that it will always 
be necessary

you’ve already won.
“Clothed in the dust of this suffering world
I celebrate the days in my own way.”
-	Kobayashi Issa

The Sunday Dispatch 7.25.21

[gauge and garner]

steps and starts

slow ease 
and tons of bricks

confusion lost in the shuffle

such a carnival 
inside this mind

but never in a good way

with funhouse mirrors 
and trapdoors

never settled
never sure

at least in any ways 
that lead to the heart.  
[in light of nothingness]   

there is always this
just beyond the edges

an unknown place 
of every knowable thing

a bastion of quietude 
when it all gets too much

landscapes shuttered 
by shards and slats

a stairwell to soul 
in the deserted lighthouse within

housing a pleasant void 
of calm escape.
[quarters and halves]

sharp lines 
of time turning tide
while the moon smiles 
apropos of nothing

spinning fables in the sky 
from a thousand drunken nights

in the shadow 
of its own reflection.   
[heave and sway]

wired waves 
slide in sync

coal within the mines 
shift their diamonds deeper

things lost always 
twice as hard to find

everything happens 
but nothing has a reason

soon the moon 
will wobble this world away

drowned beneath the oceans
out from which we once crawled.
[well enough alone]

the light of day hidden 
behind pulled curtains

the soothing darkness 
so much easier to comprehend

always fitting the mood

which is not to say 
brightness and beauty 
don’t visit

but when they do

they too 
prefer the shade 
of solitude.
“Do not confuse
a flame with light.
Do not mistake
a bonfire
for a lighthouse.”
-	Blake Auden

The Sunday Dispatch 7.18.21

[butterflies and bite marks]

where the night goes
without thought in the way

coasting on the flow
rolling like a wave

so easily 
from darkness 
to light   

from love to lust

the simple balance
of a kindred soul

to laugh 
and fuck 
the world 
[everywhere is nowhere]

keeping pace 
with shadows 
on crumbling walls

across the burning bridges 
abandoning return

there are much better roads 
than the one behind you

circles abound
it all comes back around 
if need be;

sometimes standing still 
is the best way to be found.   
[chasing the dragon]

the same new strangeness every time
corners turned in all but different light

so many sides to the heart

every curve, every touch, 
a new dimension

every whisper 
a brand new world

and every break 
another reason 
to try again.
[blood moon madness]

fire tornadoes 
and fame for nothing

trapped amidst 
this useless insanity

riding this flaming wreckage of a planet 
deeper into the void

tipping point long gone

we stare slack jawed and helpless
at the red sky that mirrors our doom.
[all in all]

tear the heart 
from my sleeve

the words will bleed from the air   

break the promise 
stitched in time

the sands will scrape my throat

scold the steely clouds
my sky will rain your name

stand with me alone
after every night has fallen

and ours will be the world.
[rolling alight]

something slow
building matters of fact 
and time

as evidence gathers 
in the spaces between

singularities redoubled
second guesses thrice removed

easily forward
into the beautiful 
and breathtakingly 
“Sometimes just getting up and
carrying on is brave and magnificent.”
-	Charlie Mackesy

The Sunday Dispatch 7.11.21

[last mile]

difference close at hand
long winding roads behind these eyes

no nights pass 
without shadows of doubt 
being cast

holding fast 
the empty space 
as the fallout begins

and the skeptic heart 
believes anything but the truth

until every stone is turned.   
[fear of falling]

lost in the process

boundaries breached 
beyond reasonable expectation

blame hidden 
in the establishment 
of connection and promise

removing roadblocks 
within the map of the heart

to meet in the middle
every day anew

until night came
when you suddenly remembered 
your fear of the dark

and thought that 
was as good a reason as any
to cut and run.   
[from scratch (take 2)]

every day it begins

again the light
blinding or dim

you take what comes
and move forward

nothing expected
nothing for granted

what is here is here
what is not is not

to get in the habit   
of letting go   
as soon as you 
open your eyes

your heart 
may never stop 
[all over the place]

trailing sparks 
down dusty tracks

circles and lines 
bent by recognition

memories blown about 
like torn bits of paper 
in the empty chambers 
of the heart

echoes of shadows 
of phantoms ghosted 
by reality

as love 
waits alone 
in the dark.  
[enough gone to go around]

dust uncovered
moving pictures in the mind

loss jarred loose 
by the crack of a frame

and it all pours out

the words left for dead 
in a graveyard of love-me-nots

the whispers 
burning tapestries 
to ash

the last light smoldering 
in the heart of a ghost

and a bluebird finally free.            
“We live in a perpetually
burning building, and what we 
must save from it, all the time, is love.”
-	Tennessee Williams

The Sunday Dispatch 7.4.21

[half empty]

always again
this turning of time
this death of love

inescapable and, at times, 
staggeringly debilitating

the long silences 
of the heart alone

joy has its moments, yes…   

but loneliness 
has the rest.
[neither here nor there]

days rolling low
adrift in a sea change 
of the heart

somewhere between left, 
leaving, and starting again

familiar terrain
but never come upon 
with ease

promise overshadowed by loss
fog not yet lifted from the horizon

only a smoldering in the rearview 
to gauge the distance

between the last crash
and the next wave.   
[long hauls and small doses]

like dimming 
harbor lights

too far gone 
to turn back

waves rolling out
crashing stone and will

leaving no heart that is touched
broken just as many times.  
[coming and going]

we meet ourselves 
many times   
along the way

in the doorway
in the mirror

as both witness and collaborator
accomplice and alibi
muse and executioner

reminded of all that changes 
and all that does not

and how to reconcile
who we thought we were
with who we actually are.
[of hearts and hunger]

closer to now than ever before 

still occasionally drawn 
to everything but

so far it hardly matters
but it helps to think so

even the illusion of progress 
is better than nothing   

[in the wake of dreams]

pulled from slumber

this weight of unknown shadows 
to carry thru the day

hardly a whisper
barely a scream

the subconscious throat 
to form its words

and somehow 
make it real.  
“Loving anybody and being
loved by anybody is a
tremendous danger, a
tremendous responsibility.”
-	James Baldwin

The Sunday Dispatch 6.27.21


i dreamed i was sitting at my desk 
writing a poem by amethyst light

i heard a soft moan from the bedroom
and went to took a look

you were laying in my bed, on your side, 
napping in the twilit room…   

just then, my head slipped from my hand 
and bounced off the keyboard, 
jolting me awake…  

the pain was nothing 
compared to realizing 
you weren’t really here.   
[poem i don’t remember writing found on a scrap of paper inside Bukowski’s ‘the days run away like wild horses over the hills’]

if i ever loved you 
it was surely not my fault

for how could i not 
have fallen over your bluffs 
and into your ocean

like a man gone off to war 
thinking of everything 
but death.
[that’s all]

slowly on my way
bent on breaking the habit 
of you

we were right for a while
until we weren’t

no lightning
no fanfare

just two lonely people 
trying to make things work

when sometimes 
things just don’t.
[too late]

vivid desolation
habitual tension
crippling anxiety

savagery and amusement

a minefield behind these eyes

of second guesses and false starts
of too much, too little, not enough

so much so 
that you’d think 
i’d’ve learned by now
to stop falling in love…   

well, think 
the fuck 
[bet on it]

all around


is held 

is a continual lesson 
in letting go

there is 
nothing left.   
“We are captives of what we love,
what we desire, and what we are.”
-	 Mahmoud Darwish

The Sunday Dispatch 6.20.21

[feel it]

no other way around

let it sink
let it sting

bleed if you must
there’s always more

let your bones rattle
then settle

the pain will teach you 
all there is to know

the heart needs to scream 
before it can sing again

there’s always another

and if there’s not…   

hope will keep you 
from every having 
to know for sure.
[beyond the veils]

illusion spins
lost in the mind

is nothing 

facades upon facades

as love slowly burns away 
in all its mad beautiful glory

and we quietly weep 
for what is left behind.
[blue moon shine]

far from the light
inside and out

stepping out 
every now and again

only to stare up 
into the empty sky

shivering down the spine 
of a thousand lonely nights

and looking down the barrel 
of a few thousand more.   
[someday mourning]

low in the light of waking
sifting thru the necessary achings
of the heart

dissecting emotions 
down to the root

transposing the brightness 
with the bedlam

for it is our duty
to utilize every last part 
of this sacred animal called life

as a sign of deep respect 
for every lesson it teaches

and to let nothing 
be gone to waste.
[harder downhill]

long gone 
seasons of love

tandems torn 
before chance was given

left again to careen 
the twisting turns of solo flight

a continuously tedious fight 
for the smallest of victories

surrounded by suffering fools 
smiling like idiots

as i stumble awkwardly past
rattling my winter’s bones
down these young summer streets.  
[attrition and attachment]

down to wires 
and frayed ends

bare bones 
breaching skin

dig deeper
and you will find

there is always 
something more 
to lose. 
“Life is loneliness… Yes, there is joy,
fulfillment and companionship, but the
loneliness of the soul, in its appalling
self-consciousness, is horrible and
-	Sylvia Plath

The Sunday Dispatch 6.13.21

[from the hollow of the heart]

old, familiar places

of beauty in decay

of brightly dying flowers

of love left longing


in the darkness

of memory

i sink like a stone


the almost unbearable sadness

of our last kiss

where i can finally

summon the strength

to carry on.


[wings and arrows]

wrapped in gray clouds

dreams dream of love

when it’s gone


of the way

she looked at me

the way her eyes

held me close

from across the room

or the way

none of it matters now

and never will again.


[round the bend]

mourn the grief

grieve the mourning

accept denial

as part of the process

hold the pain

in the open space

that remains

let it breathe

let it rest

it is there for a reason

letting you know

that you have loved and lost

that you have become well versed in both

and if you listen

you’ll realize

it is also telling you

to keep going.


[gone for good]

my love

has nothing to do

with your beauty

for it will remain

long after you leave

filling all the empty spaces
left behind

as i stand alone

fading into the distance


for how much stronger

my heart has become

from every end

it has endured.


[night after night]

always back to this

the same words

in different ways

late in every season

lost on every road

the only light the bright blankness

of these pages waiting to be filled

the only companion

the only thing that works

the sutures for my heart

the salve for my soul

the razor for my wrists

the only love

that will never leave me.


“Some people feel the rain.

Others just get wet.”

- Bob Marley

The Sunday Dispatch 6.6.21


engraved in matter gray   
certain ways know no other

long burned into 
paths leading nowhere

change warrants 
persistent acclimation

thru emotional climates and quotas

until balance is struck
and a new course is plotted

upon the common ground.
[undertaking and endeavor]

this new welcomed light
brings with it a sea change of sorts

a challenging current of congruency 
with which to contend

needing both 
a careful separation 
and a certain synchronicity 
to be successfully integrated 
into the flow of things

neither these words 
or this heart 
can ever lie

for poetry and love 
are nothing 
if not true.   
[slack the tethers]

leave belief behind

cease the struggling of the spirit 
to abide by myth and allegory

the falsely conditioned purpose 
that weights the brain 
is not ours to carry

and is but a bitter and violent history 
that holds no lure for those who wish 
to evolve beyond its deathly era.   
[i, too, made of dust]

is the nature 
of now

as everything passes 
thru the ghosts of our being

we can remain 
ever empty and light

the weight of all things 
does not serve us

we are free to let go 
the gravity of life

and be still 
in silence

the perfect moment 
is always here.

find the bottom ground
of your grief and heartbreak

stand there

and from fully and deeply 
in that space

accept the necessary inheritance 
of your vulnerability

as a new foundation from which 
to let the seasons change.
can find 
a way
to feel 
like home.”
-	Blake Auden

The Sunday Dispatch 5.30.21

[well enough alone]

mixed signals from the mind
the heart begs to differ

as my bones pile in confusion

thru the dark mourning 
of things never left

of safety and concern
of willingness and compromise

of love’s dimming lights 
upon the horizon

better to forget
and leave things be 
for now

the beginning will end
the end will begin

no matter where we are
or who we are with.
[all over again]

new means
same end

nothing changes 
but everything

too much for some
too little for others

as the mind hovers 
in a senseless purgatory

and the heart 
waits for a heaven 
that never comes.

there is a deep, 
lonely canyon 
between the heart 
and the mind

i’ve spent 
many a night there
searching my soul

silently screaming 
in the darkness.
[breaking thru]

it all turns away again

whatever could have been
whatever small hope that was still hanging around

my chest bursts with freedom 
while it heaves with sorrow

i straddle strange and fine lines 
never meant for the faint of heart

love, and losing it
makes for great strength 
and great sadness

but you’re never quite sure
which comes from which.
[all in, all out]

stripped from reality   
constantly skirting the edges of doom

as the world contracts 
and expands behind these eyes

on a whim or a whisper

looped and caught
in the dark caverns 
of thoughts run riot

finding it increasing hard 
to know how exactly 
to just be

as the slightest tilt 
sends me spinning

and i hold on for dear life
until the only thing left to do

is let go.
“And I tell myself, a moon will rise
from my darkness.”
-	Mahmoud Darwish