Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

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

the sunday times 12.17.17

never meant to stay


patters broken from hold


everything at one


a part

of a way


the rest

will pass


the rivers behind you

have been crossed

for a reason


and now

you are somewhere else


but always



only ever


crack of smile

touch of madness


equal parts nothing

and everything


all love

turns heavy

on the heart


days and memories align

to balance pain and sorrow


all things in right places

needful or useless


life is full of holes


it is our purpose to fill them

as we see fit.




ahead of myself

while the darkness waits


mourning roads to redemption

one step ahead of the sun


every angle shining


every breath anew


from now on.


one on one


secret tallies

chalked and erased


voices unspoken

indifferently strummed


nothing to miss

but the past that remains


tethered to tradition

and formal apology


while nothing resembles

what it once was


trapped inside an antiquated promise

and its obligation to be kept


for the sake of everything else

that was lost.


“let’s pretend death is the

wiping away and cleansing

of a more simple stain.”

  • jeremy szuder

***This concludes the collection “the truth and other lies we tell ourselves”.

“Sunday Times” will resume 1.7.18 with the first selections from a new and as yet untitled collection.

Wishing you all a peaceful holiday season and new year filled with love and light.

Thank you for your continued support.




the sunday times 12.10.17

being and longing


when the darkness hits

nothing bleeds like love


deep rivers cutting stone


the heart embraces

both the memories

and the mistakes


none without the other


standing alone

in the lighted void


seeing everything

for the nothing

it is


and smiling.


the nemesis of fragility


in the soft glow

of dreaming flames

inwardly rising above


awash in shifting currents


the myriad distractions

of faith and belief


fall away


a word.


an insufficient eternity


cast and reeled


clocked out and punched in


burning down

in the daylight

of our demise


everything broken

or holy


drawn to a close

secretly behind the night


embraced in the slow darkness of departure


we find that only a few

are kind enough


to let us die in peace.


break it down


some things

are never meant

to stay


ways and wills be damned


grand schemes

of plausible extinction



no truth too ugly to disguise


fighting from the outside in

seems counterproductive

to simply being

from the inside



the struggle is unreal


everything we will ever need is present


without so much

as an angry word

toward another living soul.


“This terrifying world is not devoid of charms,

of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.”

  • Wislawa Szymborska

the sunday times 12.3.17

depth charged


beauty in banishment

sunlight betrays

our places of hiding


only harder

must we seek

our darkness


not always within

the time allowed


glimpses of pockets behind the clocks

stolen away from the natural order


to accept the unaccepted

as honored and invited guests.


pretty tied up


eased out

in black pools

permeation surrounds


for reasons needed to determine


long together

until starved

and withered


still the beating hearts entwined

in some amicable wreckage


with less than desirable dynamics intact


breakage needed

in one way or another


so as to free both from the other

while still able to stand together


each as one.




lost in dark chambers

beyond the broken past


trying to bring a light

to every equation


in hopes of the future

coming back around someday


until then

there is the presence of knowing

all is well


even when it seems

quite the opposite.


avenues and alleyways


beneath the stones

of here and now


weighted with circumstance


forever lifting

and pushing forward


unglumly lotted

and longing


but lucky enough to know


we are better

for every step

we take.


phantom pains and leaving trains


nothing rhymes with reason

and that can only be a lie


none need convincing


we all know

what we know

and how


the why

is war and



the chasms

dark of thought

swallow the hallowed void


and hell has graciously accepted

our invitation.


piecemeal oblivion


set turning



down the drain

of memory



to the lie

of time


the stones of the sun

long for winter


the end is never

what we think it is


the beginning

is already over


and the in between

is but a blink

of the whirling



“Here we are, trapped in the amber of

the moment. There is no why.”

  • Kurt Vonnegut Jr





the sunday times 11.26.17



the beginning and the end

filled with heartworks and



the night holds on

and i to the night


staking pains

against the pleasures


hammer to the nail

heart to the fire


black holes burning

where love used to be


counting hours

and empty spaces

one by one


until everything is alone

at last.


broken free


waiting on the fall

as another seasonless

los angeles winter approaches


sometimes it’s hard to believe

i believe in love, but i do


just less so that it might

swing my way again


the first time around

it drowned in my sorrows

and secrets kept


felled upon my sword

of self-infliction


now there are new days

and much better ways to go


there is clarity and presence

that was absent in previous incarnations


there is patience

that may wain

but never leaves






chaos and kindness


bright in glory

down in flames


forever burning

either way


for better light

or greater good


be done with all the thinking

all the guessing


all the gods and monsters


our higher purpose

is beyond all this


for all the world needs is you

doing whatever it is you love


the constants are bombarding

from first light to last breath


this is our only chance


there are no easy ways out

but there are softer ways thru


and here’s hoping

they not remain less travelled

for long.




softly fallen

upon beauty’s blade


low in the hollow

of time after time


dreams only bring

more of the same


the deep vacancy

of nowhere’s return


cold as a fossil

somewhere behind

the heart.


“We are made

of all those

who have built

and broken us.”

  • Atticus


the sunday times 11.19.17



nowhere goes away

eventual return is unavoidable


dead ends turn back around

to greet the dying day with new life


nothing ever gone

but what we deny


square one

after square

one after square



hooked on a place of feeling

that may never have existed


but seems as real

as this breaking heart

all the same.


all out


drawn to the valley of lost things

reminded of certain necessities

due to recent developments


holding presence as dear

as perfect tension


in light of future days

reflecting back


upon these moments at hand.


for the last time


down from falling

beneath the curtain rise


red billows

and blue ruins


starting from one

and ending the same


the heart wonders aloud

why fate is an empty grave

far too eager for its own good.


full on


where will we go

alone and on our way


held and broken

in infinite places


yet always

the same scar

to heal


deep in boundlessness

racing like fire thru the brush


free to burn forever

if we so choose.


this poem does not exist


there is no song

surrounding this shadow


there is no key to true love

there is no greater madness than knowing this


no torture more rewarding than the search

no silence deeper than the beating heart


there is no loneliness

that cannot be lived

to its fullest


there is no pain

more beautiful

than love


and no beauty

more painful


there is no hope

that hope alone

will ever restore


everything is divine

everything is evil


there is only

all of this




is not.


“Beauty has no other origin than the singular wound,

different in every case, hidden or visible,

which each man bears within himself,

which he preserves, and into which he withdraws

when he would quit the world for a temporary but authentic


  • Jean Genet



the sunday times 11.12.17

then again


lines long drawn

pulled back into focus


connection momentarily restored

as pain remembers love’s glory


before she disappears

once more.


all from this


down from the ether



behind the eyes

of time


beyond realm or residence


as simple as truth

as heavy as the heart


these words

become life

as i know it.


nothing waits


farthest things

called home


once returned

to memory’s fading light


spark the dust

from brush to



the matter of moments

off and running


to the desolate and final outpost

of solace and redemption.


be where you are


momentary infinity



from the inside




in the color and space

of emotion


beheld in the eye of the soul


our beauty

will become us


if only

we’d let it.




unmastered dynamics

oblivious to the friction

of faulty mechanisms


breaks and extrication needed

from certain proceedings


if only to keep open

the lines of communication

from a safer distance


lest they be inadvertently severed

from too blunt a blow

to the heart of matters.


up in the night


use and advantage


eyes trained

on the inside track


a hunter of wandering reflections

as the leaves of life turn


it is best

to set the heart for the sun


so the darkness will subside

every now and again.


“…it is quiet, the windows show nothing but moonlight,

there is a sadness like old rivers, and it is more real

than it has ever been.”

  • Charles Bukowski

the sunday times 11.5.17

good luck time


nothing in between the lines

just the days beyond the dawn


sometimes nothing comes

and my heart snaps shut

like a rusty trap


bled dry





is nowhere

to be found


as i peer thru the dusty blinds

at another sunday crawling by


comforted by false hope

and daydreams


an old friend of mine once said

you stop feeling lost when you stop

worrying about where you are.







upsides down


dark moods turn

more mind than matter


assuaged by sameness of sky

and anomalous routine


none spoken

to the ease of

coming days


still mired

in the looming shadow

of greater odds.


deep arc


stifled in simulation

finding our way back

ass backwards


outward tendencies

to remain inside


falsehood enhanced

in the wake of unwanted



retreating from the ruin

imposed upon reality

by our very presence


believing to have tapped into

a virtual escape route

of spark and current


our moments fall

into linear spaces

eons apart


seamed and stitched

into some semblance

of recognizable order


so as to be understood

by our puny little minds.


shade and shadow


lost in the light

of chasms deep yawn


surrounded by the echo

of time’s abyss


gratuitous in expulsion

from the grave equation

of existence


nothing is ever meant to be

as we steal away into dream after dream


the last veiled constant

in our crumbling façade.


“…and the bloody shadow of the condor

crosses the sundial like a black ship.”

  • Pablo Neruda



the sunday times 10.29.17

twice the sky


turned witness for the soul

released from nowhere’s grasp


equations devoid of summation

only here for now


free in the deep empty

fearless consequence

abides the righteous path


unscaled and unfathomed

the depths of such endeavors imagined


the mind hovers

somewhere between

mantra and madness


equally entranced

by both.


here and after


ghostly solemn

places of karmic resonance

time revisits


leaving want and able astride


as trust is returned

in incremental bundles


while love

still is left alone


in the last




even enough


away from turning wheels

dark in the rafters of thought


from where to where

magic moments recede


hard to explain

this easy feeling

of nothingness


of everything


of windows far beyond my light


reaching the dusty corners

once rendered unforgiven.


when night comes black


born still

deathly amused


curled in smoke and ribbons


streaming ether

from blue frosted veins


cloth and curtain ignite


blindingly dissolved

in on final embrace…




infinite echo


all along

thru sunfire

and storm



the last remains of shadows

fallen prey


ghosts drunk

on games of fate


a dream in some mind’s eye

spiraling towards oblivion


convinced control can be ours

while every bone of our cages

proves us wrong.


tinker and trawl


early depths

mined before the day

begins to burn


hounds fed

and trotted ‘round


now the morning speaks its mind

of little worship and less regret


trusted reasons

sacred and kept


a promise beyond words

to care and take hold

by all means of presence

and clarity


finally forming habits

that bend toward a greater light.


“Life is at the bottom of things

and belief at the top, while the creative impulse,

dwelling in the center, informs all.”

  • Patti Smith




the sunday times 10.22.17

the long game


slow turns of phase


reference framed

in hindsight broken


mirrored not in reflection

but reaction


rused by control

and its seeming lack


a trick of light

in pointed view


until broadened scope

reveals the reversal


traveling a new artery of thought

farther and farther away

from the poisoned arrow

of definition.


better weight


sheer of surface

bare of breadth


beneath the fathomage

of exhaustive remains


sparks swim the inner spaces

pregnant with idea and illumination


the impetus

of everything

to come.


drone orchestral


celestial coordinates

search the satellites

for signs of life


circuit degradation

impedes refraction


as conquest divides the elements by tense


slight disruption ensues

equal duration resumes


infinity continues.


broken and entered


cracks in the façade

born of our psychic malaise


as constant bombardment

continues the atrophy

of imagination


coffined in degenerative distraction

as our spiritual hunger starves

in the static abyss.


wave after wave


endlessly here

spun and looped


all at once

everything comes around


we only see specs of the whole

pieced and parceled by perception


just enough to fill some ruptured void

gone undetected by all but the soul.


crawling down the well


deep in the last breath of thought

secrets hide in the strangest places


etched in the slow drawl of truthless banter

or seared in the silence of parting ways


culled in a moment

a mission of degree


the same difference

bides our time and nips

at the heels


the principles of vantage and vortex

a smooth recurrence of everything again


where nothing becomes

what our wishes

hope to be;


when every breath

is a new way of dying


every step

must be

a new way

to live.


“breath deep enough and we are possessed.

breathe again and we will be gone.”

  • Jim Carroll


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