Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

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

The Sunday Dispatch 9.25.22

[arrows and scars]

silver lines 
scrape the dusk

doors locked 
from inside

as the click 
and clatter of nothing 
goes on

we become easy prey 
for the torture of reward

if no passion 
has cursed our heart.
[am i not]

too many playground tumbles
broken crown and all

bottles fought as winters burned

always the greener grass 
just around the bend
until everything was bent 
beyond recognition

a husk of fractured moments
rattling around the empty spaces 
that remained

still thousands of miles 
from the stranger in the mirror.   
[uncertainty and ceremony]

gazing down the canyon
in a never found july

life left for kindling
but led here by love

a beautiful beginning 
to such a sorrowful end

back when nothing mattered 
but more of the same

and our hearts 
had yet to find 
a better way home.   
[alchemy and transmutation]

midnights struck mad 
by the clockhammers of chaos

magic from the dust of marrow

the chains of change rust not 
upon lightspeed’s loom

as centuries 
of thunder roll 

calling for decay

from the outer reaches 
of inner space.   

from clocks 
and calendars

numbered days no more

hours useless 
to the now of never

unbecoming reinforced 
on a moment by moment basis

slowly removed 
from the hushed grimness 
of existence

falling softly 
into surrender

the comfortable silence
of this nowhere
called home.
“The world sighs toward me
in a long rhythm, and brings
me the peace and indifference
of immortal things.”
-	Albert Camus   

The Sunday Dispatch 9.18.22

[break it up]

the heart gazing upward
toward the sky down below

what seems
is never all

shifting glass thru
the panes of existence

when any which way
seems the only

randomness reshuffles the routine

unbeknownst to anyone
paying attention to nothing that matters.
[merge and refrain]

parting from missed marks
the sweetness of sorrow remains

anything about the way
you wanted me to be
was too far removed
from who i really was

but something tethered me to you
snagging my heart by the strings

until everything
just fell out
of tune
[bottom dollar]

since when and always
broken down to dust

at ease with nothing

pulling down the clouds
for a pleasant distraction from
the barrage of penniless thoughts

pushing thru
to other sides
of nowhere

beneath the radar
of fortune and recognition

52 years deep
and still figuring
most things out

but soulwise
the poverty of poetry
seems to suit me just fine

i get by with
what gets me by

and from what i can gather
i seem to be well on my way
to a vast and unreachable elsewhere.
[simple chaos]

look too deep
and it all fades away


we skate upon
the thinnest veneer
of solidity

thinking hope will save us

when the only way
to ensure any semblance of victory
is a continual and unwavering

the night

the pavement steams
from too many years, too
many summers, too many
burning hours of no escape

to complaint
and trivialities

cracks consume
their sustenance

ever opened
to the light.
“Civilization is like a thin layer
of ice upon an ocean of chaos

and darkness.”

- Werner Herzog

The Sunday Dispatch 9.11.22

[dreams and allies]

beneath the wake of the day

rumbling thru
the guts of the city

the darkest shadows
of loneliness

be ever
on your

blood deep
this clutch for instance
and comfort

this soft security
of temporary contentment

gnawing at what’s left
of this broken will

until the crows
call for my bones.
[naked and profane]

the night holds
all the cards behind
the dark curtain of stealth

the light of stars
as far away as our hearts
from our heads

as we cast
our favorite stones

and curse
the vacant savior
of youth.
[bonfire of sanity]

the years decay
far beyond the realm
of our repair

as we dance beneath
the deadly hands of time

our brokenness
on each other

our loneliness
on ourselves.
[size matters]

off track
in the dirt
of the mind

we build
and burn
the ego

scaffolds and fumes
love and destruction

the tug of war
balance verse bravado

neither so easily brought down
and even when, hardly ever for good

vigilance is needed
to maintain the smallest imprint
on the sands of our time

while cultivating
the greatest impact
on the hearts of others.

of all the ways of knowing

maybe mine
wasn’t the best route

nor the quickest
or easiest

but after careful consideration
i’ve come to believe

it did and still does
have everything to do

with why
i’m still here.
“What exists, exists so it
can be lost and become precious.”
- Lisel Mueller

The Sunday Dispatch 9.4.22

[approaching capacity]

longer roads remain
as both time and light fade

there is only
so many hills
you can die on

so many things
to fight for

the final battle
chooses you.
[strung between stars]

the nights hang
by a thread

a glorious abandon
on the brink of broke

stealing words
from thin air

endlessly teetering

between total collapse
and unmitigated triumph

as it should be.
[upwardly mobile]

a placeholder
in lieu of ache
and emptiness

something deep
that never leaves

an anchor
beneath the glory

a phantom behind
any fortune

kissing the dust
of dark memory

bringing death
to life

in all
our finest
[wall and shadow]

markets of trade
within the caged confines
of bone

bartered stations
of solace given

for a chance encounter
with a like-minded heart

hardly ever worth
the soul-time wasted

but hope is a
worthy adversary

against the urge
to remain alone.
[amethyst heart]

long since gone

ever here now
for the most part

in between the struggle
during the downtimes

honing defense
in the wide open
space within

to better comprehend
the nothingness

that saves me
from everything
“Going nowhere isn’t about turning
your back on the world; it’s about
stepping away now and then so that
you can see the world more clearly
and love it more deeply.”
- Pico Iyer

The Sunday Dispatch 8.28.22


kindred to the night

here amidst 
its subtle glory

from all the light 
and burning

riding a real low vibe
into the smallest hours

into the mind 
behind the mind

where simplicity whispers 
its golden words 

to the blank pages 
set before me.
[inference and obstruction]

equal measures
drastic and otherwise

a crapshoot carnival 
of fuckery and happenstance

no rules
no control

facades upon facades

the fools 
fueling the fooled 
with the foul taste of freedom

as poison well-wishers 
usher in the new pollution 
down the bullshit promenade

none for all 
and all for none.
[no love story]

tarnished by time and truth

sadness blooms of late
in the shade of memories lost

so this lone wolf 
wanders the wasteland

searching for hope 
rather than prey

as the heart seldom sings for 
the clipped wings of dreams 
never known.
[naked rust]

marked loss
looks away

the turn of life 
from pain to reality

in the hold 
of acceptance

to make better from that 
which breaks and fades

knowing there is no way out
that leaves any less scars.
[breaking trance]

far from gone
yet long strayed 
from our oceanness

return is imminent
if only we can learn 
the trick of our light

for once 
the small self 

all that remains 
is e v e r y t h i n g.   
“The most difficult thing to admit,
and to realize with one’s whole being,
is that you alone control nothing.”
-	Henry Miller

The Sunday Dispatch 8.21.22


fired entwined
spun thru infinity

the hopscotch of habit
needing a break in the
tandem tightrope

pathways primed
for realignment

standing down alarms
this is not a drill

just the last exit
before the final
fatal turn.
[by night]

lifted by low light
and room enough
to breathe easy

away from reminders and futility

removed from the consequential minutiae
and the drainage of the day

the soul spreads out
beneath the stars

momentarily content
with nothing but now.
[snakes and stones]

all beneath the well
the turning wheels of time
cycle thru illusion

halving the heart
in the dark rafters
of hellish afterthought

faded scenes on crumbling walls
the projection of perception askew

so bridges are constructed
across the faulty mental plains
to mind the gaps of disruption

to look beyond the mind
for answers long sought

and trust the unknown
to lead the way.
[who’s to say]

no worthy comparison
to anything that matters

every vantage altered
all reason obscured

pointing and shouting
from selfish windows

casting shade
at every want
that isn’t ours

faulty products
of broken systems

clinging to heartstrings too
frayed to pull any weight

grasping an arbitrary assemblage
of guidelines and patchwork
more threadbare than the tapestry
of our fading shroud.
[purity and rot]

spectrums traversed

dear life clung to
now released

from impermanence comes hope

all kinds follow
all kinds lead

take your turns

and peace
can be made
with any struggle.
“To calculate on the unforeseen
is perhaps exactly the paradoxical
operation that life most requires
of us.”
- Edgar Allan Poe

The Sunday Dispatch 8.14.22

[paradise and desecration]

from nothingness 
to nothingness

sentient stardust bearing 
the inevitable uncertainty 
of everything beyond our reach

a longing for permanence 
instinctual in the marrow 
of our being

decomposed by grief 
until regeneration kicks in

spinning wheels of fire and prayer 
thrown to the empty spaces of valley floors

brought to a fragile and precious fullness 
by the chilling finitude of our perceived immortality.

[twenty-ton shield]

swirling exhaust 
of fight and fathom

spun and twisted 
shackles of expectation

rolling the dice of reason 
thru clouds of imperfections 

as a perfect storm 
begins to break behind 
the eyes.   
[dear life]

mind the gap
between here and there

often subtle and stealthy
the places that pull away 
from presence

places of forced smiles and fitted boxes

of time stealing minutiae

all can be simply countered 
with deep dives into the endless well of creation


your own or others’

the soul was never meant 
to be sucked away into nothingness

remember to breathe in the beauty
so that the agony will never be alone.  

[my heart is asleep by the side of the road]

overcome by underwhelm
finding the light fantastic quite dim 
in retrospect

life comes and goes
much like death

incremental and much less 
than the sum of all parts

the real fear is love
leaving for good. 
[gratuity and dissemination]

only from one
does anything come


ushering a grain of truth
to the great shore of shared being

where the light gathers
beneath the darkest skies.
seesaws itself
on nothingness.”
-	Dalia Davis

The Sunday Dispatch 8.7.22

[denial and resignation]

i’ve yet to find 
far enough away

and i can only surmise 
it’s for the better

i know for sure
if i did

there’d be no 
coming back.
[poem after a night in a crowded theater]

the breath, 
the boxes,
the ceilings, 
the floors…   

everywhere this 
and everywhere that

the talk, 
the proximity, 
the suffocating, 
the idiocy,
the spittle, 
the sweating, 
the plethora, 
the stench

good god the fucking humanity…   

enough already.                               
[frame of reflection]

retrospect in retrograde
deep in the throes of introvertigo

locked inside the razor 
of mirror and memory

no one else here 
in the hell of my thoughts

to pull me back 
from the flowered ledges 
of a smiling oblivion.
[soul gardening]

there is a beggar’s canyon 
between the heart and the mind

a dangerous channel littered 
with the bones of dead dreams

a long, wild, winding, 
breathtaking path

often buried beneath 
the weight of love and reason

it is in our better interest 
to clear the brittle remnants 
after each excursion

so as to keep 
the flowers above 
the weeds

and the diamonds 
from being swallowed 
by the rough.   
[zero to one]

everything before me
all but illusion

everything behind
the same

the joy of life is to 
remain pliably still

like a branch 
in a hurricane

open to what’s coming
done with what’s gone

and undeniably present
for what is here.
“I don’t know what it is like
to not have deep emotions.
Even when I feel nothing,
I feel it completely.”
-	Sylvia Plath

The Sunday Dispatch 7.31.22

[stillness of heart]

love is a loaded word

sometimes harder 
to hear than say

a harsh and bounding echo
thru a cavernous empty
that quietly aches

for someone, 

to arrive.
[sometimes nothing is enough]

content in this cave
hardly a movement 
or a thought

no needs
no wants

just moment 
after moment

new and unencumbered

successfully dodging 
that last straw

at least 
for now.
[apathy and mire]

on notions 

becomes rigid 
and void of glory

to surrender to the day 
as soon as it begins

leaving the gate open 
to whatever may arrive.
[keep quiet]

if only 
for a moment 
or two

bask in the fertile emptiness 
that cannot be felt until you stop

feel the nothingness 
that calls above all the doing

seek the space in between 
the everything else

stay there 
and become new again

if only 
for a moment 
or two

just to know
there is this place to go

when all else fails.   

the least of all worries
hang like a dark hammer 
above the all of everything else

the mind short on circuit
headlong on low tide

trace the cracks 
and you will find the gold

break the broken habits 
that refuse to unlock the weight 
upon the soul

learn to float
and let go the sum
of all things

so sinking
will no longer be
an option.  
“What can we gain by sailing
to the moon if we are not able
to cross the abyss that separates
us from ourselves?”
-	Thomas Merton

The Sunday Dispatch 7.24.22

[deus vult]

is uncertainty 
in action

a talisman to grasp 
in lieu of rational thought

a trapdoor 
in the futility 
of existence

a magical make-believe master

helping to hone 
the ingenuity of self-delusion
to divine proportions.
[nature of the beast]

a breath from the lungs of hell
unbelieved as anything more 
than a devilish myth

bridges burned 
long before crossing

we rise like ashes 
into the blue winds 
of gouged canyons

above the landscape scars 
of humanity’s ill wishes
littered with branch and bone.    
[start slow]

give yourself 
room to breathe

cannon shot 
has nowhere else to go 
once fired

the peaks and cliffs 
will wait for you

for the rising 
or the jumping off

keep pace with the clouds
meandering the blue

take in the sky 
as the whole world 
turns below

keep a low rolling boil
a steady simmer

for no one 
can burn 
[roundabouts and dead ends]

lights gone wrong 
and premature infatuation
seem to be my lot in love

but it does get tiresome after a while

one too many times 
and i’m down for long counts

self-exiled for the sake of preservation

so goes the heart 
into hibernation mode

for yet another imaginary 
and inhospitable winter.   
[end of story]

held beliefs trapped 
in the undertow of thought

buried beneath bygone years 
of lesser fortitude
when for better or worse 
was always worse

when the words had vanished 
and the secrets compounded

and though the storm clouds 
still roll within me every so often

the sea has certainly
changed for the better.   
“In the end, there is no end.”
-	Robert Lowell