Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

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

the sunday times 10.15.17

change not an end


low slung in the lazy early day

slightly perturbed as always


new corners turned

putting practice into purpose

in skewed hours of anomalous routine


here in places different

bruised by memory


bleeding new blood

into the same old river of madness.


what hearts have wrought


the difference is familiar

the emptiness is full


around in secret

stung like the wind


hard fought

with nothing

to show


still progress persists

no reason otherwise



in the simple instinct of nature

lies the purpose of our presence.


slow night



in the heavy light

of gold and darkness


elsewhere shines

a truth to be known


smeared unholy

with euphoric depravity


as memory serves

to enslave the heart

with longing


for times

when nothing



every way out


shadows of scars


stations left leaving

from dusk to dying day


always a woman

always a war


love stained

and battle bread


into the fire

we fall.


beast and flower


lightness returned

from wake and wither

here in static


sounds and movement alike

the same difference abides


the past drifts back

remaining in touch


thru line of time and dream

drawn in succession


the present drifts forward

coercing coincidence

into future holds


parallel crossings destined

to the greater light of obscurity


soothed by the unfathomable patterns

of randomness and definition.


“The day goes out, the city

lights up, remote and near.

Weightless hour. I breathe

the moment, empty and eternal.”

  • Octavio Paz

the sunday times 10.8.17

good riddance


learned ways lessen not

the weight of harsher truth


all in our time

from crowns to cruelty


the light betrays the end


and a new day begins.


gone and back


long without


longing within


the ache


the pull


turned away

at every turn







the only thing

that seems to be missing


is me.


for lack


still this vacancy

save for the clouds

keeping loneliness company


in thru the days

out thru the nights


as hope

hopes against

all hope


for a beginning

or an end


to everything


reachable light


far off in every direction

and somewhere in between


forward thru every fire

remedy and compassion maintained


opened and bled

for better ends

than before


scored and settled

burned and brighter


brokenness freed

from corners and cracks


to simply float away

into the smolder of dusk.


as we fall


surfacing thru consequence

unweighted and leveled from the fray



the shaken ground

heaves forth


as pummel the hammers of persistence

at the walls beyond foreshadows’ measure


chancing fate

we reach and retreat


games of rule and chaos commence

turning callous in blink or wave


electricity determined

chemistry denied


the sky to kiss

the ground to hit


lest we forget

every pleasure

has its poison.


Wherever you walk tonight,

 I wish you the best of everything in the world.

And honey I hope you found whatever you were looking for..”

  • Tom Petty



the sunday times 10.1.17

song of you


for this i burn

in the winters

of the mind


ground beneath the heels

of your clumsy attire


wrapped in scarves

and sunglasses


as you cross my heart again


leaving no trace

of who you are


only a faint and barely familiar melody

that i can’t quite place.


cautious reserves


habits formed

and torn in turn


the day for the night

gone for away


fear suffers the moments at hand


now without then

is the necessity

of imperfect progression


as is the realization

that the best we can ever be


is human.




damned letters

of turning leaves


pages of useless chatter

to quiet the storm


fire in the night

bellows from the

lungs of hell


shaken white with hopeless fear

in the darkest haven of solace


obsidian focus needed

to endure and evolve


hindsight devalued

in any wake


outside of time

an unrelenting release

will overcome the sorrow


let no suffering

be denied its purpose.


blood and veil


a bit of the devil

in the air these nights


torn from past pages

pinned to crooked crosses

of exile and innocence


in the rotted beams

of steeples hallowed


above the symphony

of rust and silence.


trip away


guided godlessly

toward voids of divinity


passionate impressions

left gouged in the psyche


at peace to roam the scape of dreams

untattered in thought and being


held as a promise

in the heart of embrace


we turn

from stone

to dust

to star.


“Let my history then

be a gate unfastened

to a new life

and not a barrier

to my becoming.”

  • David Whyte

the sunday times 9.24.17

we are not here


void of timelines

and context


chasing non-linear parallels

of dream and wake


trains with no stations

commiserating silence

in negative space


years together

long gone

before the after


right now

as the past



never the same river twice


but always


at once.


for someone, somewhere


i only want this

and nothing more


in dreamy alcoves

of fractured light


love has me walking into walls

and screaming in my sleep


staring into the space i’m lost within


the dog-eared days of another’s touch

are few and far


hardly enough to remember

but far too much to forget.


if looks could kill, there’s a dead man in the mirror


ways out

only lead

back in


not knowing what helps

from what hurts

we go on



better to let it go

watch from a distance

like a fire or a car wreck


slow down, maybe get a quick glimpse

then on to the next bit


as we search for small anchors

in the pummeling waves of minutiae


no matter how many times it all goes wrong

no matter how long it’s been since the last time


sometimes nothing works


not poetry

not politics

not anything in the medicine cabinet

or the liquor store


sometimes love dies horrible deaths

while stupidity and cowardice linger on


sometimes it seems

that’s all you really know for sure


and sometimes you know better


like now.


approximation of disorder


bright rooms of dim thought


morning bled

into afternoon’s ease


fixing fault and further disruptions


beyond these doors

the world burns away


no matter

in this mind


we all come

we all go


and nothing

ever really



“Can our dreams ever blur the intransigent lines

which draw the shape that shuts us in?”

  • Sylvia Plath

the sunday times 9.17.17



wired broken

in missing peace


darkness an anchor

chained to the heart


mission critical

reaching critical mass


onward asunder

in summer’s last light.


gone away


back to this haunt

stuck in the walls

of stranger mind


turned from what was

to what cannot be


simple as a breath

deep as a scream


here at the scene

of love’s lasting crime


as every day

forgets her name.


silver and stone


creeping edges


the ledge saved

for redemption


now back to squares of one

hardly alone in lonely rooms


always a ghost or two

to rustle the blinds

or dim the lights


to scrape the last bits

of sorrow, anger, and joy

from the falling night


to lay upon the page

like slivers of lost treasure



rapture of the blue rose


conclusions denied


we are hiding in plain sight

without clue or cover


hanged by a thread

of the tapestry unraveling


screams of steam

escape the apparatus


coaxing the riddle of infinity

toward further obfuscation


home is a hole in the ground

somewhere in the red forest

of sycamore and silence.


in it


small change

slight returns


echoes of nothing

thru vacant chambers

of wells and wishes


up from the earth

scream the angels of elsewhere


each with a hell

all their own.


“There’s an ocean of consciousness inside each of us,

and it’s an ocean of solutions. When you dive into

that ocean, you enliven it.”

  • David Lynch


the sunday times 9.10.17

the weight of the nothing


down from rafters

of useless sanctuary


the boarded attics

of storm and emotion


rays escape from the darkened tomb

where the bones of love repose


lying in wait

for the day

that never comes.


too close


another night

lit and burning down



like a dream

with twice the confusion


the hours subtract

from the waste of

the heart


given up

on giving up


back to the game

more thorns than roses


sometimes different

but always the same.


the desired effect


we are ghosts in the machine of death

skulking around filled with mad laughter


nothing we know is anything at all


from static to ether

passing back and forth


no lines

of time

or dream


each the other

and far beyond


bones and armor

dust and myth


no thought but thought


and all the other words

that fall away when defined.




adrift in silvery solitude

pondering wounds

of hidden significance


scouring the niches of former joys

to overwrite the deeply profound vacancy

that haunts this somewhere place

between losing and lost


uncovering the fear

at its very root;


what is to be

without this darkness

to clip my wings


without this deep-down hollow


what is to be

when this longing is solved

when her mornings are mine


when the people look like flowers


when the worst is outshined

and overshadowed


when i lay down to her smile

upon my pillow


how will i go on


how will i go on.


“Solitude, as I understand it,

does not signify an unhappy state,

but rather secret royalty, profound incommunicability

yet a more or less obscure knowledge

of an invulnerable singularity.”

– Jean Genet



the sunday times 9.3.17

clouds in the sun


dusting the ravine

dragging the river


unearthed and exposed to the elements

liberated from myth and shadow


abundantly clear

in the presence of light


obscured or in absentia


upon arrival or departure

the truth is our only hope.


as it were


old words





different from now

but much the same


better views of nothing


everything still burns

but brighter and more beautiful now


with certain elements subtracted

new equations abound


as do their solutions.


trial, error, and execution


sideways down

from where we are


past crutches burned

in the low and last light

of some summer gone


forcing useless triggers


down and diving deeper


inside the living dream of presence

awash in color and emotion


better ways to brighter places


and what it all comes down to

is what’s left

after it all comes down.


like this


now and again

and again and again



like a gray storm



tempting the heart to darken


as the days

hopelessly pass


but fight it will


for love

it must.




there was a rock in my chest

that pounded day and night


i had dreams of turning to stone


there was a darkness behind these eyes

that could not be navigated


there were walls

around the walls

around my heart


and then

there was her


whoever she may be.


“for want of something to do

we keep slaying our small dragons

while the big one waits.”

– Charles Bukowski



the sunday times 8.27.17

done and done


words failing

mind to follow


paper ladders

from burning skies


faster than nowhere we flee


identity mistaken

in the flawed façade

of jumped guns


seen only thru the fog of love

its dying flowers reflect

our deepest sorrow.


somewhere else


turning in time

keyed in to purpose

and uncertainty


as the nights escape

to the page


and my words

reach out for her love

in the darkness.


the sun, the moon, and the truth


opened air

the gleam of stars

and consequence


disheveled in dim rooms

of useless sanctuary


saints shot thru

with morphine and



off-chord psalms

of latchkey kings


so heavy this thud

of other days upon us


visions of demolition

and connectivity


prayer circles circling prey


animal and anima locked in stare

between madness, magic

and dementia.


fields of stone


marked for escape

fury rents the core


loosed the magma of existence

scorching the land beneath which

we bury the dead


projections distorted

by boundless authority


the blind leading the blinder


hold fast

hold close

and hold the fuck on…


go outside


love someone



nothing is easy

but very few things

are easier than that.


“If we behave like those on the other side,

then we are the other side.

Instead of changing the world,

all we’ll achieve is a reflection

of the ones we want to destroy.”

– Jean Genet




the sunday times 8.20.17

blood of summer


birds of mourning

taking flight in darkness

from the light of solid things


cloudless in the burning eye


across the fallen cities of the heart

to the place where every dream begins.


low hum of sadness on a lonely sunday morning in august


long these last few years

of better ways and brighter things



this empty



this glaring omission

in the heart of matters



past away


in return for what is lost

the bloodrush of presence clear


the redemption of trust unveiled


corners turned

demons still avail

in scream and secret


burning gold in the depths of the valley

gates tarnished in the dark air of loss


held aloft in shadow

by statues armed with hyacinths


choked on the ashes

of suffering’s intent


until a breath

returns the soul

to light.


where ghosts gather


infinite rust

merged in mist

and dreamless scar


dark sky mind

weighted with anchors of memory


flashed in currents

of alternating charge


losing balance

in grace and sorrow


atom split

mayhem ensues


entrails of ash and dementia

blinding sands of experimental decay


solely for the sake of death

beauty becomes the martyr


as the thorn slaughters the rose.


“I whispered to you

because I was afraid

you would hear.”

  • Sondra Anice Barnes


the sunday times 8.13.17

good and gone


first and foremost

the feeding and the purge


the difference of walls

between our minds


separated bodies

from splendid apparitions


we are nothing

borne of nothing


so highly perched

without reason


with only love

to break our fall.


nights like this


elsewhere drifting

closer to farther away


from keys and clocks

and cages of light


a wingless prayer

as deaf as the ether

in which it burns


static and memory

a snake uncoiled


a finger lifted

a finger dropped


letter after letter

word after word

poem after poem;


i always thought

there would be more.


glass and fire


some things

are nothing


in better possible ways

than our slim definitions can harbor


bones to dust

and still we dream

in the mourning

of our hearts


as the mountains

ease the sky


always keeping open

the eye of the mind.


brink and teeter


nominal approach

amidst the expected disarray


empty vessels

side by side


softly into the heavy night

as blank screens stare back wide

and beauty seems beyond reach

in the blue darkness of our lost ways


all the ways up

and more to fall


these walls climb my dreams


down from mountains

the sky released


as all beneath is washed away

and we sing with laughter.


“…I can explain it all

by tilting back my head

and opening my mouth to the rain…”

  • Thomas Lux