Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

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

the sunday times 3.18.18

in time


felled in wait

the hours can break either way


accept and let go

or hold and grudge


if one can breathe and wonder

one can see everything as a choice


and wisely navigate

any rivers

that may rise.


done in


last chance fallen

close enough to conquer


nebulous sentiments hang

behind indifferent screens


the heart not one to see

thru circuits of failing words


only to surmise

brokenness is not far off.


a delicate madness


to fill the days

from moment to moment

without veer or distraction


with all memory and movement alight


from sadness to acceptance

to all matters of attachment

and impermanence


we must be ever vigilant

in remaining where we are


so that we may get

where we are going.


force of habit


grinding new gears

to clear the air

of dust

and indifference


so much to settle for

but so much more

to strive toward


as the days

finally become

their own


and the nights

begin to fall

into place.


either / or


hold steady

secrets to attrition


keep the distance to the stars in mind


for there is always a way

to find what we need


but not always

a way to keep it.


“Nothing cannot exist forever.”

  • Stephen Hawking



the sunday times 3.11.18



with these words

this heart lives

far beyond

its means


a shield

a solace


and a solemn ritual


by which

all can be



breath and blood


opened to the night

a livewire of moments

coiled and sprung


thrown off from the past

the shackles of dread and



and now

there is this


and nothing else between us


but what

we build



let be what lay


between the embers

in the ash of memory


reasons have their way

of twisting the truth

out of sorts


never grounded

in belief or circumstance


tethered only

to what never

could have been.





this strange newness

has come upon me


around again

but everything different


cloud covered

surface scratched


vague still

but refined


no pretense

no fodder


edgeless and easy


nothing promised

but where the days

will take us.




gone lines

dead to worlds


from scream

to silence


days but time

thru shattered glass


memories like trains

into fog and smolder


the night is deep with rain

thru windows cracked


as wonder is led astray

down deeper wells

of consequence

and complacence


all the while

only wishing

to stay.


“How I want to claim my happiness

and how I want to walk through life

amazed and inarticulate with thanks.”

  • David Whyte

the sunday times 3.4.18

shine and falter


time spent in darkness

summons the light


balance involves both sides


too soon we cling to nothing

in hopes of everything to follow


still the sky

still the day

still the night


void of places

and leaving things gone


with no place left

to be.


close enough


lost transmissions

static signals sent


holding tongue

and monitoring response


falling from orbit

and relay


the heart sinks

beneath the radar


a red star burning

silent and alone.


luck lays low


lost in ocean flicker

doused in burn and worry


longing for distance

to assuage proximity


certain ratios askew

in darkness charged


overthought and underwhelmed


nothing but ghosts

and withered time


until light breaks in the heart


and everything you’ve waited for

comes pouring out.


from all points forward


leaving left behind

just to move things along


new roads have become apparent

parallel to a similar in trajectory


mirrored in harmony

and ease


in shadow and discord


searching for the lightness of being

together thru the darkness.


please stand by


gone with the letting

breath after easy breath


here where we are

in the spaces between


to remain oneself

beside another


to hold

to be held

to be free


leaving time on either side


touched and turned

by distance embraced


kept like a promise

that holds it all together.


“We invent ourselves out of ingredients we

didn’t choose, by a process we can’t control.”

  • Lew Welch

the sunday times 2.25.18

on things being what they are


coming thru what we do

it is necessary for certain realizations

to take hold


and incumbent upon the soul

to seek balance in all endeavors


for nothing held dear

can ever bring peace

without the willingness

to someday let it go.


shift control


giving up ghosts

of chance and matter


putting practice to purpose

against the conscious stream


thru break of habit

and sometimes heart


better becomes the lessened burden

of being what others expect us to be.


where it goes


once we learn to fly

we become a part

of the mystery in question


the swirl of colors

in the spectrum traversed


the language

of both the head

and the heart


stolen from innocence

to touch the sky


soon becoming painfully aware

there is no way to return unscathed


from the heights we aspire to

or the depths from which we escape.


lone wolf syndrome



of bridge

and dream


recognition denied


some nights

are better left



to sweep up the ashes


and separate

the forgiving

from the forgetting.


“Oh the heart is heaven

but the mind is hell.”

  • Tom Waits

the sunday times 2.18.18







connection eludes

windows pass









saints of ruin


drifting amongst lost things

for years on end now


part nothing

part everything


shifting from truth

to memory


scaling psychic scaffolds

to leap beyond faith

deeper into our own abyss


to find what has already been discovered

over and over and over


that the only thing we stand to lose

is something that was never ours

to begin with.


love or fire


stronger than worlds

vagueness withstanding


here within

here without


all parts moving


removed are we

from time’s soulless gaze


immersed and fully devoured

shelled and pieced from scorn

and ramshackle


born of brilliant collision

doomed to implosion


striving to make something

from all this nothing


somewhere in between.


for want of blood


again from this point

onus and impetus as one


so the mind riddles itself

twisting knots in straight lines


courting sparks

out to sea


dark sails set

for the blue stones

of another sky.


right places



from scratch



thru storm

and struggle


to signal a passing star

on a familiar frequency


satellite hearts

oceans wide


one in millions

and then two


trajectories aligned

for the duration.


“There will always be devotion,

smoke coiling the open wound,

snaking the deep loam, molding

a clay head twittering the end.”

  • Patti Smith



the sunday times 2.11.18


















once and again


long shots gone


hitting too close

to the heart


marks forever missed


counting outs

and waiting

on nothing…


i’ll be here

if you need me.


blues and greys


a thousand dreams

in the empty sky


waiting for it all

to come back around


nothing owed

for truthful admission


just the wonderment

of a certain sense

neither here

nor there


faces pass

hearts fade


as distance strikes

yet another chord

of minor key


and another night

becomes another night


as equally significant

as all the rest.


the sum of gone



where the going

gets done


as the loneliness creeps on,

and in, and away…


life in soft focus


mid-point passed

gripped by convincing confusion


about being no one

about what is left


about what is still needed


and if it will soon be too late

to find it


or worse…

if it already was,

a long time ago.


easy gold


inside the breaks

of heart and promise


we can find what comes

in all this going


when we can look up

into the deluge


and see everything we need


in the shine

of the rain.


“The only calibration that counts

is how much heart people invest…

Nothing else really counts at all.”

  • Ted Hughes





the sunday times 2.4.18

thrown curves


back from center

to the sideways skews

of falling forward


tribal and inherent

these veins dig deep


dark is the whisper

of leaving breath


as shadows reach for beauty


finding only

the bluest ruin

of the beaten heart.


leaving what is left


phases turn

in blinks and waves

before the eyes can adjust


sharpened and spinning thru

the machinery of being


in darkness wired

the cities of the mind

remain suspended

between horizons.


still this



it’s alright


hard to say

from this deep inside



from wanting

and possession


alone in this room


alone in my dreams


is this

how i remain



secret latitudes


calling out from clearer paths

still the loneliness echoes thru the valley


nothing close to being or becoming

which strangely brings more comfort than usual


settling slowly

separating the wants

from the needs


somehow the words always seem to come

to let me know how i feel


still the mind reaches for the heart

and vice versa

but not nearly as viscous a circle

as it used to be


sharpening the blade rather than dulling it

listening to the ghosts that roam the heart

rather than following the urge to drown them out


for to stand in the light love has left behind

is the lesson we learn from dreaming too long

in the dark.


“Human understanding is a savage construction

of dilation and resistance.”

  • Elizabeth Willis

the sunday times 1.28.18

…of night


no more this fracture

these scattered pieces

of one and none


everything is here

all around and

around again


faces and windows

and spinning horizons

to behold in all their ugly beauty


solid and static


yet faint

as mist

in the moonlight.




framework imagined to be

a dream to never see thru


vanished in thought

before reality intruded


off and running

nowhere and everywhere


spun out and rutted

long before chance was optioned


only to be alone and trapped

inside the smoke of memory.


maybe something


vague and undefined

hovering in the ether


unactioned thoughts

primed then disposed


hardly feeling right

until it’s far too late.


keep it on


this strange lasting life

turning in the fires of revival


everything again

as if never before


anew these scars

of love and lesson


counted down and brought to pass


so many doors call us home


but the only truth to be found

is in the way we choose

to walk thru them.


insides out


in the fading clutches of once remembered

aloft and away from everything we were


straight thru the raftered bells

bone shaken in honest delight

to let go the practiced indifference

of feign and jade


our history within us

our blueprint and our



brushed away like some psychic mandala


true and free


to gaze upon

the many brilliant constellations

of the heart


and finally rise

to meet them.


“I think, or I’ve already thought,

that in this winter are the former winters

of those who’ve written

that the path is predestined

and that we’re already made for Love or Fire.”

  • Jorge Luis Borges




the sunday times 1.21.18

down the mountain


seize or stall

this sunday

becoming time


honed in an atmospheric melody

of inspired nonsense


we all have our ways

we all have our means


mine reside

in mournings done

one by one

word by word



by dawn and



upon the leaving days


all this time

faster now

with less left


once more around the sun

east to west and back again


slow burns the star

of the lonely heart


holding on for dear life

as we spin and spin.


still illusion


in darkness wired

throwing words down the well


alive in the shadows

as we die in plain sight


no match for the maker

no quarter for the query


consciously ecstatic

and forever linked


to the blazing petals of our love.


traces of light


hesitation beckons

no heed minded


hell is payment for pause

twisted are the ways of comeuppance;


if we give too much thought

to nothing but thinking


the heart will soon rot away.


oblivion and obsession


ribbons of thorns

winded by storm


passed the rage

and the danger

of dreaming


touched in the mind

beyond comprehension


run amok

over and over


quiet and slight

but just enough

to repeatedly veer off course


cracked is the maze

behind these eyes


a slow unfurling of madness

that gently conquers

any sense that remains.


“Memories… still looking for something to bite

gnaw us to the last bone, devouring the long silence

of all that lies behind us.”

  • Pablo Neruda




the sunday times 1.14.18

hymn for 6am


come around morning

far and removed

from the darkness at hand


be the clouds

enough shelter

for the brightest dreams

of awakening


starting point


off the ground

somewhat lifted


or none the worse for wear, at least


memory wrapped in longing

as shadows escape down holy mountains


like a light year’s brigade

toward infinity.


ceremony and devotion


nowhere found

right where we left it

swirling in madness

at a moment’s notice


return is futile


only forward

thru wind and fire

to the other side

of always


as mountains

turn to dust


no different

than our bones.




take care of what you can

love who you love


as the shit show rolls on

deaf to the crowd


make welcome your world for others

help ease the blow of daily hammers


they want you to snap

they need you to break


knowing that if you won’t

they can never win


be better

be kinder


strings gone slack have no pull


we are not our bank account

we are not our social security number

we are not our internet provider


we are nothing they will ever control


but only if we continue to choose

to save what we love

rather than kill what we hate


and be the living breathing antidote

to every poison they preach.




late in the year

late in the night


as the candles burn

thru one last midnight

in december


thru what has come

and what has gone


as the clocks turn away

and begin again


as lights flicker with nonsense


i wish the best of you

the best of times


and to the worst of you

i wish the same.


“There is never a time in the future in which

we will work out our salvation. The challenge

is in the moment; the time is always now.”

  • James Baldwin