Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

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

The Sunday Dispatch 4.18.21

to each their own

there needs to be a reason

but hardly a rhyme

something to move

or be moved

a lump in the throat

or a rock to the head

a tether severed

a broken something

to kick it all into gear

a certain darkness

that slyly smiles

and dares you to go on.


parallel asymmetry

bells ring

beyond the silence

an empty hollow

fills the void

as a darkness draped in blue

envelops with its boundlessness

the infinite whispers

of heartache and nothingness.


long away

clutching anchors

when meant to drift

balance thrown

by the twitch of a nerve

collecting days

on the backs of

clouded mirrors

there is

nowhere to go

but around again…

remember this

every time

you think love

is gone for good.


set it down

anxious awakenings

dismantled to no avail

more sum than parts

broken keys

hidden triggers

no treasures buried

struggling to swim

in the sinking waters

when all we need to do

is float.


getting somewhere

when grappling

with gray matter

simple remedies


subtlety beats intricacy

contrary actions

over complicated schemes

but no matter how you play it

what is

will always matter more

than what should be.


up and at it

steps sprung

from sleep to wake

for no other reason than

life again

rife with chance,

change, or falter

whether enhanced

or detracted by circumstance

a steady flow need remain

for progress to proceed. 


“To suffer grief is to make a hobby

of resurrection.

To rebuild each morning from

yesterday’s ruins.”

  • Blake Auden

The Sunday Dispatch 4.11.21

spent in silence

from rift to bridge

passage to precipice

everything is always new

the mind is but a trap

that tells you different

nothing is without reason

but not some grand plan

for choice is the trigger

that sets the motion

and our intention

dictates trajectory.


last dance

dragged by the chains of illusion

thru the same endless circles

hypnotized by notions

that perpetuate our suffering

without which we can float free

and finally be liberated

from this hollow charade

that rattles the bones of our doom.


farther out or deeper still

starting points

and imaginary lines

riddle the psyche with

obfuscation and subterfuge

leaving crumbs of comfort

trailing down the darkest passages

so we can find our way

back to the light.  


resonant asphyxiation


by our own hurry

and exhaustion

in a futile attempt

to escape the periphery

of empty spaces

we neglect

the temple gardens



with the fruit

of all we need


slowly crushed

by the weight of all

we don’t.


beneath the wheel


in the illusion of structure

valuing projections

over place

creating destinations

in which to exist

straying from the garden

into prefabricated spaces

that offer little to the imagination

and even less to the starving soul.


pay attention

between the days

something gets lost

falling down the division

into the pulling maw

hardly noticeable at times

other times debilitating

but let not any piece be torn away

without a fight or a chance to be given

be ever vigilant and aware

to save only what is needed

and let all else go

the choice

is always



“Spirit is Life. It flows thru the death of

me endlessly like a river unafraid of

becoming the sea.”

  • Gregory Corso

The Sunday Dispatch 4.4.21

harmony, semblance, and disturbance


the heart walks the mind

in the dreaming hours


elements of wish, hope, thought,

become distorted when seen

from different angles at once


a collision of longing and logic

removes all sense from the equation


as the soul deciphers the myth

filling in the missing pieces

amidst the waking life.


something blue


locked in the tremble

and tumble of slow riot


a manic dirge of screaming silence


bones aching to escape

the cracked and trapping skin


as nightmares gallop and trample

the last remains of this tender heart.


responsibility of survival


traces of doubt

obscure potential definition


trust the difficulty

of each endeavor as

able to be overcome


war but a symptom

of the failing mind


keep faith

only in the heart


and guard your gates

with nothing but open arms.


elements and conditions


myth marauds as life

until consciousness cracks

and spills upon the streets of soul

turning city to subject


third eye perception

staring down the barrel

of loaded reflection


surveying the outward behavior

of the inner landscape


bound not

to consequence or ritual


but to the narrative thread

of the current beneath the waves.


be this the way


unfound and content

the nights alone become

a comfortable space


taught by the years

to ceaselessly transform

within any given parameters


to allow the unfolding

as the soul sees fit


to know without knowing


to trust the process,

take notes,

and most of all


enjoy the ride.


“Time takes life away

and gives us memory, gold with


black with embers.”

  • Adam Zagajewski

The Sunday Dispatch 3.28.21

morning stroll


a deep blue darkness

hangs just behind the eyes

uncracked by the finest day’s dawn


a place of lasting comfort

in which the lulls can be burdened


a secured station of retreat

when the blinding lights become

too much to bear;


go there often

and return refreshed.




emotion sways

void of anchor

and foundation


a free falling

toward the depths within


gazing as if from a dream

into the dark currents of crash

and cascade


a constant flow

of conscious reflection


ever shifting and shaping

what comes next.


no better, no worse


difference changes

as years like vines

swing by unattended


no presence but vague motions

thru a culture of shadows


somehow things get righted


far beyond luck

something more substantial


a slight movement in the light

that brings other options into view


and we graze the barely tangible turning

taking notice for future reference.




confirming the definition

of insanity once

and again the same


still shackled to certain

unbreakable habits of being


having already licked a few

of the more pressing behavioral ones


i find the work mornings

increasingly difficult to brace for


there’s a pressure, upon waking,

that immediately takes hold


mentally cornered from every angle


so i’ve learned to deal and expect it

and let it have its way


until it eventually lifts, as it always does;


i guess

it’s not such a bad thing

to begin most days with a concession.




drop below

the cave of consciousness


deep in the dark shaft of the mind


sense a greater opening

beyond knowledge and thought


a boundless ceasing

of barriers and borders

between time and space


where nothing is all

there is.


“No soul that aspires can ever fail

to rise; no heart that loves can ever

be abandoned. Difficulties exist only

that in overcoming them may we grow

strong, and they who have suffered

are able to save.”

  • Annie Besant

The Sunday Dispatch 3.21.21

comfort of thunder


too often

we fool ourselves

by turning away from

our own personal truth


maybe because we think

if we fully embrace it

the darkness of it

the fear it holds

the strength it takes


we might never return


but we learn

quite the opposite happens

when we fully accept

everything there is

to feel


and that bowing

to the harsh realities of life

only enriches and expands the space

in which we exist.


turning gray


past wickedness aside

along with premeditated intentions

half-assed at full bore


restlessness now abandoned

for a steadier wake and an easier sleep


a broader smile

a deeper groove


and the peace of mind

of a mind at peace

more often

than not.


grain of salt


gamut run

a thousand times over


mazes of the heart

minefields of the mind


keys and combinations

parting shots and bitten bullets


whether staring at the wall

or drowning in the river


sweating, shivering,

drunk, stoned, sober


every angle covered;


to believe everything is an arrow

pointing the way forward


is to believe

you will always be

exactly where you should.


escape route


untried turns

broken keys


as love falls

for the shadow

of the heart


left only to this daemon of device

served well for all the downtime it takes


a better use yet to be found

but for the soul to survive

word by word


often strung together

with nothing more

than the thinnest thread

of hope.


anywhere from here


no urge to fight

no fight to flee


endurance quietly honed

strength found in smaller numbers

or better yet in the golden ease of solitude


with peace

never more

than a breath

or two away.


“When an angel carries away my soul

All shrouded in fog and folded in flame

I have no body, no tears to weep

Just a bag in my heart, full of poems.”

  • Elena Shvarts


The Sunday Dispatch 3.14.21

an open invitation to nowhere


there is another way thru

a secret that is always known


a beckoning from the longest road

to walk into the fading day


to get lost to the light for the better

to find a place both above and beneath


a balance

between everything

and nothing


a space

to die just enough

to live

a little longer.


after the fall


years stained

with pallid reflection


a slow parade of tiny horrors

fading dimmer by the day


until something turned

something gave way






but in its place

a blank and gleaming slate

upon which a new leaf would turn.


tenacious vulnerability


delicate tasks

can break the skin


fragility is our nature

as is strength

as is perseverance


but hardly embraced

or celebrated as it should be


to be broken again and again

is the only path to a stronger resolve


and the only road to persistence

is thru the cracks in the heart

painted gold by time.


red sky, blue moon


beyond the breaks

beneath the falls


the current remains

broken and redeemed


a mirror for the light

a bed for the darkness


ever forward

both away from

and toward


every waiting shore. 


will and wake


leave left for the leaving

lean toward the better ways of being


take the lonely roads often

and light your own way


use the wisdom of the wind

to your utmost advantage


for there are secrets

nesting in the clouds


and all we need to do to find them

is rise.


“Another world is not only possible,

she is on her way. On a quiet day

I can hear her breathing.”

  • Arundhati Roy

The Sunday Dispatch 3.7.21

the weight of the heart


it takes a while

often much longer

than expected


to put pettiness

and obsession aside


to cut bait

and finally realize


of all things reached for

little comes closer than

what is already here.




wandering the night

thru the mind’s eye


grazed by regret

and chances lost


i still find myself almost at ease

deeply breathing in the darkness


comforted by its spaciousness

and promise


endlessly amazed

by how it often affords me

the gift of piecing together

a poem or two


from the words hidden

beneath the stone of the heart.


i still see you


behind the sadness

in the soft light of a better end


thru the window

on a sunday

in the rain


when i close my eyes at 3am


when time reminds

of the empty space beside me…  


but only because you were the last

and the closest memory i have

to being alone


or at least

that’s what

i keep telling myself.




heavy this room

with metallic sounds

of wire and wood


heavier still

with a deeper resonance

of low vibe and key


choir or cacophony

equally inspirational


all has its time

all has its place


as it comes

as it goes


and over and over

everything is new again.


nevertheless, all is well


damned by appearances

it’s often only downhill

as soon as i open the door


maybe better and best

to keep to myself

in a room filled with music

with a head full of words


but alas,

necessity still dictates steady employment

that requires me to venture outside the confines of my cave

for most of the week


so i’m prepared

to bite the daily bullet

until poetry starts

paying the bills


and if it never does

well, that’s fine too.


“The soul should always stand ajar,

ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.”

  • Emily Dickenson

The Sunday Dispatch 2.28.21

soft edges


all along the gone between

a sharp tenderness eludes


as the heart stutter steps

toward nowhere fast


like a baritone

straining for the high notes

sometimes it all just seems

too far out of reach.


silver sorrows


framed photos

of broken hearts


as ageless longings hover

searching for an easy place to fall


the over-burnishing of ever-afters to the dullest jade

can sometimes work wonders for the heart


poke hindsight dead in the eyes

let the past smolder as it will


step forward

and surrender


knowing now

that love can never win

until you let it.


facing the façade


scattered in silence

only echo remains


a meandering and aimless fear

suddenly dialed in


hoping for gold

beneath the shaken foundations


with no other way

of finding out


but walking

thru the fire.


time away from time


a soothing darkness trips the mind

in the bright dawn breaking


destination removed



in the comforting space

of nothingness


void of clock and calendar


exposure stalls the routine

duties shuddered for now


with only words

only rest

only peace


to adorn the day.


so it goes


mindful of the gaps and the turnings

and the undercurrent of unease

that stealthily permeates

as awareness subsides


still plugging the lapses as they arise

knowing they always will


to simply continue

on a steady course of progress

and acceptance


locked and unloaded

every step of the way.


“The true and durable path

into and through experience

involves being true… to your

own solitude, true to your own

secret knowledge.”

  • Seamus Heaney

The Sunday Dispatch 2.21.21

dread mining


sifting thru

the dark ingredients

of mood and matter


crushed by the weight

of impending shadows


lowered into the depths

of awareness raised



the conscious effort

to sink




gone so close


a cloud covered midnight

in the mirror


all things past

all things still here


as a grief like love

holds the darkness

like a lost lamb


in the jaws of a jackal.


bound for nowhere


broken frames of reference

splinter at the thought


last times gone

but lingering


reaching for a memory

that has yet to fade


with nothing new

or of any note

to take its place.


no time  


circled in the middle of nothing

bound to soulless measurements

of arbitrary space


hindered by unnecessary components

tethered to the mysterious mechanics

of make believe


when we can be everywhere else


beneath and beyond

and above

it all.


dissonant inertia


wind rushing rivers

thru the rolling valley


as the bones of the city

rattle thru my graveyard dreams


as the storm of the eye

burns with crash fumes


as the ecstasy still tingles

27 years later thru a wormhole synapse

of the time-warped mind


i am somehow still there

but better yet still here


listening to the same song

that first tripped my wires

to a higher frequency

than the minutiae and banality

that had already stolen

far too much of my time.


“Three-fourths of philosophy and literature

is the talk of people trying to convince themselves

that they really like the cage they were ticked

into entering.”

  • Gary Snyder

The Sunday Dispatch 2.14.21


purge and process


empty the pages

of ink and lie


breathe inside

the candlelit shadow

of no regret


own your actions

give them space


and claim the void

as a dark canvas

patiently awaiting

the next bright strike.


pedestals of apology



in the blue light

of the heart


disbelief momentarily suspended  


we can still walk

the same path

side by side


no matter

the distance

between us.


eyes deep


ever drawn

to bare and beautiful windows

leading to other worlds within


where secrets of pain and kindness

bask in each other’s strangeness


while bringing a bit more light

to the darkness of my days.


minimal exposure


simple pleasures

are often enough

to get me through


an empty room

an easy breath

a poem

a song

a peaceful sleep


it’s when i reach

for the bigger things

that i tend to stumble


like the reasons,

the answers,

the meaning of it all…  


or being the apple

of her most beautiful eyes. 


of parts and pieces


left for good

the wrong ways gone


though not before

their dark wisdom imparted


keeping safe the soul

from the graver consequence

of arriving too soon

at the intended destination.


“Only by learning to live in harmony

with your contradictions can you keep

it all afloat.”

Audre Lorde