Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

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

The Sunday Dispatch 10.18.20



here is the night

alone within my



no fault

no blame






hope and caution


penned in

on the precipice


circling in wonder

counting revolutions


a break is imminent

but which way it falls

is anyone’s guess


in the meantime…


see to your obligations

to yourself and others


know what helps

from what hurts


keep it simple

and kind


for no matter what you do

you can never not be where you are


so it is always in your best interest

to be fully and unflinchingly present

wherever that may be.



gallows at the crossroads


reverence denied

when the truth is hidden


history is not taught

but handed down


felt and carried in the body

the bones do not lie


from generation to generation

we are all what we have done

and what has been done to us


just as what we do now

will reverberate within future souls


we must believe

the bitterness of the past

will make the dream of tomorrow

that much sweeter

when it finally

comes true.


zero ground


conflagration of the inner landscape

far too long burning uncontrolled


sparked by a rampant inevitability

laying the best of intentions to waste


to emerge from the smolder

battle scarred and scorched


better prepared to seed the fertile soil

and give rise to a greater purpose


than choking on the ashes of eden.


transmissions from babylon


culled from consequence

a shadow stands within me


formed in the undertow

of dream and myth


forged in the friction

between impulse and desire


an entity of influential energy


a doorway to redemption


thru which

the darkest light

forever shines.


“We go through life. We shed our

skin. We become ourselves.”

  • Patti Smith



The Sunday Dispatch 10.11.20

feeling it


simmering in purgatory

between the last since the first

and the next since the last


stalled and stranded

in the ghost-town of the heart


stars burned out

nothing but dust in the tank


and the wolves of memory

howling thru the night.


as well as can be expected


fucked up but fine

many have it much worse


i don’t mind the solitude

or the staying put


i bide my time

and keep my peace


waiting for the world to turn.  


glimpses of the way


going where shadows go

to find what is hidden

in what we hold precious


to realize

what we don’t know we know


no matter the heartbreaks

nor the promises taken


it is imperative

to remain in touch with your innocence

throughout the journey


so that you may understand

what it all means

when your destiny



back to this


vague and inscrutable

love and its falling

a necessary confusion

seemingly impossible to master


my thoughts often betray me

when it comes to such things


over and over until

wrung of all reason


left in a spinning oblivion

of hindsight and insecurity


that hopefully, if nothing else,

makes for good poetry

every once in a while.


enough with everything already


now, as i near the half-century mark


the world is sick

the nation in downward spiral

the state on fire


the sun seems to hang

in an ever-present haze

of burnt rust


i sit here





hopelessly in love

with nothing at all


yet, somehow,

life has rarely, if ever,

been better


i’m open,



ready for whatever…  


i’ve never been one

to think too highly of myself


but something about

being broken and mended


broken and mended

broken and mended


lends itself

to a certain serenity

otherwise unattainable


and i can’t help thinking

that knowing this

makes me one of

the lucky ones.


“I don’t believe in dogmas and

theologies. I just believe in being

a good person.”

  • Robert Mapplethorpe

The Sunday Dispatch 10.4.20

for my love


anything without reserve

from the garden of my heart

is yours


just as the sky

within my soul

is yours to fly


every word forward

from the moment we finally meet

will be born of your beauty,

your agony, your joy, your pain


for then

they will be mine

as well.




in her bright way

sparkling in the night breeze


far from slumber

but dreaming nonetheless


side by side

in this dark new world


being loved back to life.


everything but a kiss


broken by the wake

love left in a dream


there was a meeting of eyes

an embrace


but now she is all

but a sweet breeze

of bitter ash


dissolving into the white air

as i reach for the memory


the sharp gust of a perfect and passing rose

making a lunge for my heart


leaving only its thorns to remind.


where were you at the end of the world?


twice thought

third for luck


all eyes on anything to see


liberty sucked into

the electronic void


we can choose not to be stuck

on the wrong side of the energy trade


willing sheep

branded and herded

click by click


from a genocidal past

cloaked in tradition

to an unstable future

hardly bright with dreams

or truth


never have our voices mattered more

our power is in our presence


and wielded wisely

can free us from any

shackles imaginable.


simple twist


neon thru beat up shades

the lonely burn of confusion


windows wide

but not a breath

to be found


born to summer

a month too late


like the vacant street corner

in a cold steel cloud


sometimes sundays

weigh a ton.


“I am modest but ultimately faithful

to the pride of the lions that have

carried me from Babylon to here.”

  • Jeremy Szuder

The Sunday Dispatch 9.27.20

somewhere gone


damned by expectation

unconsummated emotions scarred


deep wounds

of intricate patterns



inescapable echoes

from past recognition



like murders of crows

blacking out the sun


bringing a strange ease and comfort

to the heavy bones of this heart


as i struggle to remember

the last kiss of long ago.


pulling threads


bones rattle

like chimes

in the cold wind


shipwrecks surround

a broken lighthouse mind


the truth of feeling

often does not translate

to the reality of emotion


beauty can be

as bleak as desolation


when the empire of the heart

can be taken down

by one true word. 


birds & angels


boxes of dust

beneath the bed

somehow inherent

with meaning


yellowed pages

of smog checks

and tire changes

so dearly undeparted


something in the holding

and the keeping comforts us

in some way


documents and dossiers

of semblance disordered


something cracked in the way we love

something loved in the ways we crack


whatever it is

we’re positive

we’ll need it again



the day after yesterday


it’s always present

in the scratch of a nail

on your skin


in the word

on the tip

of your tongue


in the alley

in the basement


in the walls

on the wind

at the door


in the secret you never know

in the truth you never speak


in the flimsy premise

in the clumsy metaphor


in the touts and the nuns


in the obvious influence

and the telegraphed conclusion


that never seems to come.


somewhere close


holding timelessness

in the space of the mind


an unmeasurable expanse

for presence and being


a conscious passage

of deeper resonance


not an escape

but a constant arrival


to where

we are.


“There is darkness in us all

but also light

when the face we show the world

is not the madness of the night.”

  • Lorna M. Rogahn

The Sunday Dispatch 9.20.20

if love waits not


either direction yields

to the center swallowing the whole


or the center’s swallowing hole


maybe the past is all that’s left


the acceptance of falling no more


the heart now just a turning stone

a placeholder for an empty space


heavy with the tenderness

of a longing unfulfilled.


only forever


things slowly lost

as lifelines fray


grander schemes

smaller windows


far passed  

the breaking point

of the heart


as wishes turn

to dust and shadow


endlessly swept away.


taking notes


stealing light from the fading day

just to get thru another night


always a bit of hope to be found

this much i know, at least


thoughts like scraps of paper

balled up in a corner of the mind

in an attic full of cobwebs and worry


somehow always ending up

in places saved for times

other than now.


missing trains


streets of the mind washed away

by the thought of a flood


hope laced with desolation

and worthlessness


it gets dark in here at times

but never too dark


just part of a required balance

to keep the pendulum swinging


never too far from a smile

or a good laugh;


there are places that need to be known

again and again


just to remember

how much better

it is now.


mirror to mirror


facing eternity

death never blinks


while life pieces

fragments together


stitching time

in broken lines


convincing continuity

into existence


contrary to its

non-linear circumstances


beholden to the impossibility

of holding ourselves accountable


for the myriad infinities

of reflection.


“All the dark hours everywhere repairs

and rights the hearts & tongues of men

and makes the cheerful dawn.”

  • Gary Snyder

The Sunday Dispatch 9.13.20

lost and found


hopelessly hopeful

in these stark blue days

of zero evidence


nothing expected

but the unknown


facades dropped

and secrets given away



in the bare burning light

of this unknowable darkness.


love is a complicated hymn


from the eaves and rafters of the mind

thoughts dive and circle like vultures


picking apart reason in the dry parched noon

of ghostly hours and scolding self-recrimination


wide eyes

bleached as bone


blinded to the truth

as evidenced by the heart

beyond all brokenness.


slow sunday burning


slipping into

the drift of smoke


away from the tedious currency

of small talk and minutiae


eyes heavy with a sleepless hollow

here in a dark room of minimal development


awash in a mellow mood

of music and melancholia


finding my deep

and profound belonging

to aloneness


and its wide-open spaces

of impossible wonder.


puzzles and parachutes


the fall is free

but the pieces

don’t always fit


we’re all broken

in different ways


it often takes awhile

to figure which end

is up


thru various fogs

of war and worry


we patch our creeds

with whatever floats

our boat


every day

a trial by fire


in hopes that

we are moving farther

from what hurts


and closer

to what helps.




slivers glide

in smooth glints

of starshine


long this road

stretching toward

the boundless sky


darkness illuminated

by the fire within


sparked by the thought

of this good life

salvaged from

the wreckage.


“I will no longer mutilate and

destroy myself in order to find

a secret behind the ruins.”

  • Herman Hesse

The Sunday Dispatch 9.6.20

shadow upon shadow


there is a source

between the darknesses


in the small unnoticed spaces

from place to place


there is everything we will ever need


the answers we seek

the love for which we search


abundant and overflowing


always present

if we are.


of hope and harrow


stone letters

in lost wells


oceans flushed

from the eyes into

the hereafter


standing alone

in the crowded



heart in hands

hands to sky


take it all

and let me cry

no more.


as it was before


ways circle back

from unknown fires

of dark origin


some point of pivot

still veiled in shadows

and memory


where doubt becomes

the default setting


primary motives

second guessed


when hesitancy

usurped confidence


this endless search

for some blanked part of the psyche

cloaked in the abyss


keeps pulling me

relentlessly forward.


peace and perdition


slow time crawling

forcing focus on forward motion

instead of futility


endless outlets

within this holding pattern

of exile and isolation


that need not drag us deeper

into darker seasons of abyss


but rather can push us further than ever thought

into brighter realms of being


simply by walking gracefully and defiantly

thru this, or any other,



down is up


empty arms embrace

the dark sunday morning


with no other choice

but to take it all in stride

and keep moving forward


sometimes forever leaves

before we ever know it’s gone



there is a corner turning

always new ahead


that we’ll never see

if we’re looking back

and standing still.


“If I cease searching, then woe is me.

I am lost. That is how I look at it – keep going,

keep going come what may.”

  • Vincent Van Gogh

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The Sunday Dispatch 8.30.20

the desolate wild


the streets are alone

among the creatures of the night


as the arteries flood the heart

with lust and hunger


snapping fangs

and piercing wails


the air thick

with sickness and tension



by a heavy gray confusion

refusing to lift.


bell jars and bagpipes


life is death in disguise

a long way gone to a place we never left


circles and lines

brushed away by the breadth of oblivion


beneath a sky

cracked crimson


aching to be at rest

with the dirt in the ground.


time and measure


lost in the chorus

of a song i never knew


fumbling with the blues

on another lonely night


struck by solitude

for better or worse


sometimes life

is just a soul-killing loop

of endless trying

to no avail


but at least the words

have my back


and my sadness

remembers how

to smile.


no turning back


breaking points and mile markers

a constant surge of downward trend


favoring reaction over response

collusive corruption over cooperation and compromise


the bells toll and toll

with no comeuppance


bolstered and enabled

by weak link milquetoast cronies

and curmudgeons content in their disregard

for anyone but themselves and their kind


we are witnessing

an arrogantly blatant attempt

at the outright slaughter

of both democracy and humanity

as we know it


and unless we are actively resisting,

fighting, and standing our ground,


we are complicit in its demise.


the weight of fire


it all comes down

to burdens and admission


the anchorage of values

to which you moor yourselves

neither fully taut or fully slack


we cannot exist solely

within the margins for error


we must venture outside the lines

to make things work


at least to explore

and try to understand

a different perspective


to not be so blind and unwilling

to alter course on a mistake in the making


it is never too late

to learn to know better


but it is coming

awfully fucking close

to being so.


“Whatever inspiration is,

it’s born of a continuous

I don’t’ know.”

  • Wislawa Szymborska

The Sunday Dispatch 8.23.20

gray daze


small hours like ghosts

veiling the faces of clocks

and memories


states of dream walking awake

thru the hallways of the mind

among the clouds


where thoughts emerge

and wishes gently crumble



rogue waves


holding forth with open arms

longing unreturned


like a quiet strangeness

cast in the shadows of the sun


cornered somewhere between tenses

in the gray hollow of suspended occurrence


tides signaling turn after turn

far from the sickeningly crowded shores.


standards and practice


defined from the outset

spaces of time carved

from the persistent void


securing some semblance of anchorage

within the unknown expanse


while remaining free to drift and adapt

as progression or regression sees fit


making all the difference

between breakdown and resilience


while allowing equal parts

madness and serenity


finding ample inspiration

in both.


turning time


this summer

is an open wound


a storm without eye

burning from the ground up

and the inside out


leaders unbalanced

with power unchecked


as we fight back

breath by breath


thru sickness and oppression

with both vigor and compassion


to reset the scales

dismantle the system


and bring our own unyielding light

to these new dark ages.


get going


sensing a shift

in the weight of things


headstones and shadows

myth and monuments


scales sliding from worth to worry

a patchwork of haste and idling


tentatively lurching forth

into the bright ramshackle nowhere


no longer waiting

for anything to come true.


“We need not stride resolutely

towards catastrophe, merely because

those are the matching orders.”

  • Noam Chomsky