This is transient. I seem to be missing that fact. I seem to be consumed by the taste of her mouth. I seem to be forgetting that the rapt edge of metal bathed in neighborhood light will draw me in like a moth in the full glow of the moon. My gaze is pulled toward gravel, rock shards that make up a poorly constructed parking lot. The adjacent stairs are calling for a climb and up at the top I imagine a clear view into an unrealized future, but the shadowplay clouds the beginning in darkness. A point in time of emergence. It weighs heavy as it all falls down. It talks to me in whispered nouns, trying for attention and grabbing at anticipated expectations but everything remains the same.

From the Very First and Coming Down

From the very first and coming down, she seized the rope that hung above a sign that read < No Outlet >

At the head of a single thread, recursion spread rapidly. An eight-sided generation split into four where space and time connected to form a whole. She applied pressure along a complex curve that slid around an increasing line to nowhere. Incessant division into points too small to comprehend like examining the crystals in each grain of sand.

The Rearranger, Slow to Speak

Impulse variability slips in, toying with the knot. Will it ever spin to unweave its web allowing for our innocence to be released? Sipping at last call, a carried movement against style and grace. We downgrade the largest things to build up insignificance, and thumb at torn and worn down pages in which we know the way the story ends.

A syncopated ripple across a pool of disbelief, an empty chair across the room calling out our name. We whisper back into the silence of trees that loom outside the window, and count the seconds against the passing traffic for some small hope of an answer. Those memories seem so far away now, dulled, perverted, and parodied. How time changes things like severed, short stills swaying in the wind.

Popped Eyes

What if I split off and turn the table around to make you feel uncomfortable in order to tear you apart? The breeze blows quickly in the swift summer night and everything I thought I knew disappears into the vacant moonlight. These kids will never understand the inscription on the street. I see it in their smiles and the way they spread their teeth. Watching with my voyeur eyes, a drink is passed in favor of camaraderie. It’s an imaginary connection that does more to disgrace the nature of the situation than a passerby with his hands stuffed in his pockets. It’s a show. It’s a story that they’ll take and file away. A dance, a small charade, the gates chained with division. Their howling grins reassure the public, “We’re only entertaining this fool for a short period.” This is the page they’ve turned over like swallowing the same pill with their hands gripped securely around their secret parts in agreement.

The Plight of Phrasing

When the crack of a can turns around against the move that I should not have taken, I know I’m thinking of nothing and begin to prepare for a future where I'm absent. An alternative to a wish left cold and broken. Ask me a question about what I wanted, and I’ll tell you it was something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. When we shifted in the park it showered down upon us, and the statues stood still, bleak and coming through. The ground soaked my clothes, moist yet unremissive. The soil became me for a moment. We hurried up to keep from getting wet, and solved the riddle in the hallway before I left and never came back. Following the sea of green against your side, I moved on as the door closed. It was always kept inside the room where you slept in a world I was never a part of.

Until time came along, the tempo remained unclean in an overwhelmingly present need to respond to everything immediately. When a circle meets the other side, it spins in a never-ending succession toward nowhere. We felt the pinch of motion as the line connected, and turned away from the top to look down at the bottom. It was destined to come back around. A call in the dark was all I ever dreamed of. Looking at the clock as if the hands could be manipulated, giving in to the complexity and the excitement of your grip. We were willing to shake with each and every second. We wanted to know what life would be like if sleep was inconsistent. Breathing in sync with the tides of the ocean, turmoil unreviewed like a current split by finely documented disorder in the depth of disappointment.

Map of Intent

The traffic disrupts the silence. There are many forms of justice and some you can't control. Remembering once down silent hill, a tainted town with yellow painted skies of ashen laden fire. The camera spins to create confusion in her head, a suspenseful effect to smash and wreck the unrelenting love that leads her to dark places. The screen stays black for ten whole seconds. Wonder swallowed by insufferable apathy. We've all lost our light, our childhood.

Through the darkness, she returned to the ocean, deep and wading in as a single ray of light shone down dragging golden lines of solar tension to dissolve the dust that covered her. She methodically recounted what really happened in the passing year. Then the echo of an air raid siren reverberated through the darling stairway into hell, and the water dripped like rainfall and the beat of a mechanical drum.

Fingertip Feeling

To our right is a path previously forged. Its gnarled, inert limbs grasp at every step we take, slipping in between the loops of our shoelaces. The path itself in dimly lit though distinct and definitive in form and breadth. We've always been here, stuck still at the mouth of this unchanging route, an enchanting sign of infinite darkness. There is no destination. The path is resistant. It welcomes us with a stale warm breath, open claws, and gnashed teeth contorted in a jagged grin. The path embraces the folly and recklessness of its object of desire, merging with the imagined, insatiable void of the unconscious like patterns on the wall fit full of youthful restriction.

Last Ditch Effort

Turning over uncomfortable dissatisfaction in a last ditch effort to come to terms with yourself. Unpleasant dreams snatch away reality and leave you tucked away sleeping soundly in your bed. I came to this town for a reason. Moving unassumingly, a makeshift serpent, sliding beneath the wet soil discovering that the dirt sticks together in formless clumps. A slight shift with eyes locked on the surface knowing that you left it all above on the table. Such vulnerability, functioning on a certain frequency, but when we wake up we want different things.

We drip with a last ditch effort to disguise a hidden meaning. The time before was so different. We spun our web with intricate patterns and toasted to success beneath the glow of frosted lanterns. We laughed at screwy behavior. We stretched the moments long and thin leaving behind the subtle bliss of intimacy. Such a graceful acquittal to numb our taste buds and bitter everything that rose up on the spoon. We were made in desperation, pumping around. Tribunal restitution fled in burning disarray where hope is laid to rest, devoid of direction like a bent pipe highway.


In an instant, he dragged Linda to the basement with high hopes to find himself. The camera on the floor surrounded by inscrutable instruments covered in blood. A slow clock sat ticking as she clutched her locket to her chest. The score settled on small tragedies of sisterhood and the lost trance of what could but wouldn't happen. There is no liberty for us in the implemented order of you. A threat manifest on the toppled staircase of regret. Enshrined far from comfort scratching at her bleeding wound. The warning bell rings in the sky-lit green. She sighs resigning as he tightens the chains unleashing all of his pitiful exhibitionist tendencies.

He said, “Wait. Don't move, you’re mine" and took another drink around the corner where the particles of dust kicked up from the floorboards. With control, the warning bell tolls on the hour, expressing faith in a promise land where no one has been before. The sound chases after wishful thinking and moments of imagined freedom. This began with a narrative and devolved into disorder. She exhaled lament in pacified agreement while her healthy disguise crawled out of harmony into the belly of the old frontier. There was always subtle wonder within the destruction of mysterious darkness. Action poised with friction, a calm manipulation of everything. Time rolled out flat and the more she moved, the more it pulled her down. Her quiet cry to go home muffled like music in a padded room.


This is the life of inappropriate misunderstanding. The sections run down beneath unremorseful feet. So we freeze as the glitter showers us in ignorant delight. Small black seeds leave behind sickening stalks in the wake of growth. A terrible depiction of what's to come. The lies will eat us alive in broad daylight and liberate us from the cold outside. The way we were is the way we are. Fleeting sentences burned in another old library. Reproachful statements from the quiet few who have decomposed and dissolved into new chemicals. Swallow slow, for the words have come to coat our throats and flow like conclusions to nonexistent issues.

Stay in Limbo

There's a corridor which extends in the space between the length of three years. The lights flicker in meandering patterns, igniting a trail of tears. She is swollen in the valley of her own discontent, impatiently pushing past the mile markers that line the path. Tall self talk won't feed her food, and as the hair bristles on her neck she turns her head to signal for more. She winds to snap, the words fall back and her vision blurs. Sometimes supplementary moments can stand the test of time and where you think you should be isn't where you belong. Idea-free violence touches on a node of indefinable pain and her knees buckle as she crumbles to the floor with no purpose to lift her up. The outline of her nakedness left like a leaning shadow against the wall.

Bad Air

Bad Air, is an exploration of the historical accounts + folklore of the 14th century outbreak of the bubonic plague in Europe.

Initial research uncovered some unthinkable practices implemented during that time period. From a poetic standpoint, it's really quite fascinating how in a time of fear from the threat of death, we can do such horrible things to one another. This series is an attempt to use language to reflect on the negative behavior that came in tow with the disease.

  [ photography by Amy Miller ]

photo by Amy Miller

The Cradle

inside a shell
the pit emerges
gasping for resuscitation
some mothers assume
this counts for something

a barrage, a purge
down countless numbers
the call kept calling
while their fathers fled
for solid ground

it’s easy to assume
that the cure is buried
beneath unfound knowledge
when supple breeding leads
to overproduction without
ample supply

and you know you’ve met sufficiency
when the hell hounds come crying

scooped up into her arms
a sleeping child is cradled
in the external womb
of elongated flesh made
to work like utensils
fit for petting zoos

she sung a whispered lullaby
down the canal of unremembered hope
if the children could speak
they’d know when to say enough

it’s abundancy, abundancy!
the dark cloud announced
as it came crawling over the cities
of the western seaboard
like a trail of diffused tragedy
meant to even the proportions

if negligence and disregard
are human to the touch
the world turns over in its grave
to make more room for us

photo by Amy Miller


three to five
a waking life
fit for fools and dying needs

a piecemeal wish of
shaking stimulation
wading through carefully
placed reeds

when what you want is to desire
and getting what you want
is to regret what did transpire
you hide inside
a prepared meeting
while fighting time contented

siphon off the energy
leave you there to waste
slaughter you,
grind you down to residue
like broken, dusty frame

an unchained seasoned victim
roosts inside, dormant kept
tranquil in desperation
sucking down each last breath

creaking at the summit
of a distilled expectation
tomorrow is the last day
and no one has the answer

respect kept still for the chosen few
who up and left the country
who took their time
to make plans for the future

ripe and keeping faithful chains
taut for all to see
membership depleting
for the fools down on their knees

photo by Amy Miller

Memento Mori

he awoke in deep reflection
on the transience of life
tearing apart the mirror
of vanity to learn the proper
art of dying

through detachment he sought rest,
bending over backward
to peel back all his skin
a classical invention to
turn off and fall apart
the ritualistic expression
just the way he had been taught

if you love enough
you must give up everything,
remember that you have to die

the thought returned from taking leave,
and in the wind doubt came
to pass like a suffocating
hand close firm
around his neck

nobody wanted this
he didn’t ask for restitution
twisted into dilapidated
compounds of flesh and disease
the bell rings
when you’re too close
to the sound of trouble

it spills over when you’re not careful
to touch a bit of the taste to
your tongue, then rip the
label off of everything
you’ve ever known
proves more powerful
than the strongest of elixirs

don’t act like this is
something you’ve never seen before
don’t act like this is foreign

we all know where the
sallow, somber fear of
nonexistence comes from

photo by Amy Miller

Glass Eyes

breathing was heavy
in the days of due infection
through aromatic discretion
the beaks came through the city
rebalancing humor

he made the injection to drain
their blood on demand
solid eyes reflective of
disintegrating flesh
dispelling the smell
with a cover and a catch
stuffed full of flowers,
herbs, straws, and spices

withering away in the days
that lie ahead
to play the only role left
until they were all missing
and the rise became the fall
across street

translated health kept
tucked under slow reform
when they lifted their beaks
to the unknown and placed
their rubber hands upon
each patient melting on
their rotting beds

bitter, brave misleading
masks which came in peace
and left in death

  photo by  Amy Miller

photo by Amy Miller

Love + Desertion

solitude by candles snap
the air in subtle moods
discoloring the bending motion
between two lovers in a room

when it happened she knew
not what to say nor do
so instead she stood in silence
manipulating attitudes

an elusive breeze brought
the death of waiting in the air
as she covered up to ward
off waves of violent bouts
of anxiety silenced in her throat

a glance cast back at her lover
lying there, his skin fading into
pale and ghastly shades
contrasted by the black
intensified protrusions
emerging from the creases
of his weakening body

he fell quickly into darkness
far from the flame
her love losing its luster
in the grim reality of death
she already knew what would
become of him

fear is like a bullet from the barrel
so quick you can’t escape
in the hours of the early morning
he called out her name

“I’m going for the doctor”
was all that she could say
then she walked
out of the house,
and kept walking away

photo by Amy Miller

Death Fog

it came by way of a
foamy miasma, a mix
of gas across the sea
tuned to kill with equality
churning like a wheel
with twisted spokes
bowed into winged-beings

the lesions drained of
absolution, the fool’s
maker on the rise
apprehensive waiting
for when time meets
no time

waxing figures melted
by the bedside,
an hourglass wound down
one breathless moment
to lift a dying refrain
which drives these weathered
carcasses slinking back
into the lifeless womb

the interloper sheds
some skin beneath the
dusky light of homespun
tales, peeling back
with retribution to lay on
shades of slow decay

ley lines reeling
sitting by the edge of the sea
uncovering the wistful
blips of meaning
in a fog intent on billowing
like some sick siege machine

to tell them you misunderstood
things aren’t what they seem
and maybe in two hundred years
someone will rewrite history

photo by Amy Miller

Inside the Walls of Kaffa

corpses flung from the trebuchet
lie in waiting beyond the stone
when the people of the city came
to dump the masses in the ocean

death the equalizer
democratic, we shall see
that when we’re even, heaven
opens up to let the workers
of iniquity deliver their decree

anything they’d understand
to cry out Lord, please hear our plea
of subjugations unto nature
from the coil of slight bodies

the toil of mass induction
panicked sellers taken leave
spreading out along the sea ports
from Crimea to Capri

they don’t have to choose
between death + no destruction
for when fear grabs hold of principal
there’s a loss of a skilled
thought process

shameless shaking below the deck
sailing across the channel
to an unknown end
away from sorrow toward
desire of the free,
unlimited breadth of spiritual
ecstasy to exist as is

photo by Amy Miller

City of Dis

at the quiet end of a corner
where many people pass,
a man sips his coffee with
his eyes trained on the glass
a stout reflection stiffened at the neck
the daily paper unfolded in his lap
the obituary section steals
his glance and he smirks in bitter
ruthlessness at those left dead
before him, slipping in
and out of different states
of consciousness

there’s a wailing of troubled
voices vibrating like insanity
a tenebrous shadow manifests
to ignite an internal attack
and though he cleans his plate
reaching for the check
he knows somewhere
in a fathomless depth
that there is no end
to endlessness

for some time now he’s
spun a dance like delusion
of darkness living in him
and when the call of night
comes to suffocate the sleeper
it torments the intersection
of bodies before the light
that creep along the edges
to kill the righteous

hidden in the swallow
of sorrow, the reality
of nonsense brings him shame

over the rainbow, out
the café and down the street
he peers through
small-framed windows
on a search for warning signs
that tingle when pulsation races
through his fingers
like the membrane of
a moment that defines
how it hurts to be human

moving through the city
in a casted role to be the viewer
inside the bedroom, the
prisoner considered
an ever-present sleeper in
the wake of a terrifying dream

he once heard someone speak
in tongues, pulling power
with a fall from grace
fighting against the circles
of fate with carefully
constructed phrasing
calling out His name

but there is no end
to endlessness
the dials connect
and spin
there is no end
to endlessness
infection comes again

photo by Amy Miller

The Flagellant

the self-repentant suffers
slog along in spellbound
crowds to escape their health
and quell the dreadful distress of

three-prong leather whips
a demonstration in the despoliation
of fear, to liquidate the evil shell of
sin bubbling within lymph nodes
beneath the skin

mortification of the flesh,
a scourge in every hand,
tormented by the wrath of
the fallen angel’s swift descent

they travel far from chapels
collapsing on the ground
flailing in the thorns of crucifixion
and bones of the damned

a public display of atonement
voyeurism unchecked
sweeping through every city
their tri-tails dragging in the wind

so violently they shake
plucking people from a mood
of horrific apprehension
feasting on apocalyptic food

mystery of the final moment
what the welted lacerations
bring, savoring fidelity
from under cover of
the second coming

the trumpets sound delirium
of psychotic, panicked grief
stricken down by the awful
scent of boil-ridden disease

a statement with four corners
fixed by broken belts of wood,
fooled by strength that pulled the weight
of a crude remembrance misconstrued

in the calculated dirt lines drawn
to delineate the final sketch
of a predetermined afterlife
beyond the shadow of death

photo by Amy Miller

Hair Back

tunneling through straw
at the curbside, ridden
I can see it in your sooty eyes
it has befallen this city

it will come for me too
this sickness entangled
in the disengaged air
windrose, the root at peak
soon they will be crying over me

for who can remember
when the rope knotted
like a noose swung slow
around our necks
begging the silence to begin

ring the kindred spirits
let them loose from the den
of sin and keep a finger pointed
at the mirror within

kill me on this mattress
I'm alone with the rest
decrepit and bleeding
waiting for death

the streets know more about this
than we could ever imagine
in the sorrow of the hands
that sweep around the public dial

a recycled flat deficiency
with many ways to burn
and leave, pandering to
the exhibition of life with no reprieve

we slip small tokens of God
unprepared into our pocket chasms
and suck down floral residue
full of indecision

it's the reign of darkness
the siege of disease
its compounding swill of ignorance,
the rest of me

I lie still in the wake of repetition
and turn the other cheek to
episodic lessons
left in time to be touched
by the never and enough

Gaze On

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing Heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,—
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
- Percy Shelley, To the Moon

a fragment pale for weariness
disillusioned in the fray
passion dissipates within a flame
fighting for a form
of some perceived control

she awoke inside a polished house
beneath the shadow-wake of obscure prosperity
strung out but not so loose
as to disregard her self-constraint
for the mirror allowed concessions,
with the cycle steady stirred,
a small fraction curved and bent alert

but she moved the way she always had
so things remained as is
corkscrewed and loving nothing but to live
she appeared near the distal zone
avoiding the fury of the quake
upright upon a precipice
peering out over imagined maria lakes
competent and skillful, she stood alone
waiting for no one

over time, space witnesses an isolated few
who torn between split-line connections
suffer greatly under ruse

to speak in subtle metaphor
of a girl she thought she knew
amplified in air removed
from the vacuum rolled out in pain
with her gaze upon the moon


awoken space
in defiance of the four
crises of moral order
searching for completion
beyond the earthly door
it eradicates the local,
deep depletion of totality
between seamless drops
of honey, suckled
from the people we love

we know this man
we are him
when we were then

a meshed, abstract resemblance
of plastic coated meaning
all about the time
we were on our way
but if there was a time to go
now is the time to stay

to peel away the strips
that keep the phrase divided
to lacerate the walls
of capture that leave
us tripped up hiding

we popped the pod
to lay down memories
of advanced grit + openness
a cell turned inside out
that slings us back past rapture

when you articulate your wants
and tell me what you need
we’ll come back from waiting
to fill the holes + pull
the weeds

Quicksilver Girl

a room full of elbows
bent and kneading through
on New York Avenue
stuck with the scent of
another burning sunset
a reference point
built on the taste of her lips

spirited sublimation
that drops the heart like a beat
skinless percussion
beneath her unfastened feet
every day I'm growing older
the sound harder to hear
the belief in faithful waiting
for the right light to reappear

my tongue drifts
as the melody pairs
with the trial of discomfort
sending notes in a feedback
to make motion aware
to transcend
the slick weight of time upon
internal receiving
without her standing there

There is a tale retold:
that love is like a lost city,
the city that never was
a green beam glowing
you slowly move on

born to live
born to die
born to lose yourself in
this lonely fight

Roanoke, You're Gone

a whisper with dawn
on the eastern seaboard
your fingers slide along
my side

I tingle in the
dust of morning light

shifted lover come quick
lay me down and
break me in
remove the lid
in brief
breathless contact
so slight against my skin

I lose all purpose
my frame bends
a momentary lapse
in pattern recognition

I'm crying out
pull back the sheet
can't you see it's blinding me

sleeping sound
sinking in
to cushions fit full
of feathers that fall
around me in a dream
those phantom hands of yours
are make believe

Roanoke, you're gone
you came and went
they're telling stories of a love
that never existed

back against the ocean
the tide rolls in
a wild force wraps
around my hips
and pulls me down
toward a recollected end
my fingers fight to anchor
in the sand
but it swallows me whole
just like you do
and only then do I remember

The Highway

the lines look identical
9 days in
he feels it all
cut clean
and running thin
quells the coming storm
then leaves
on a second-guessed trajectory
threaded through a burning seat
unalleviated tendencies
to flee the city after…

shuffling back and forth
main-lining all experience
muffling a choked throat
suppressing nervousness
under the heat of thirty bulbs
two strip lights, face aglow
standing on stage
stark and exposed
a grip on his neck
fingers tight to check the sweat
water dripping from the loft above
drenched in the comfort of familiar pools
and an empty bottle of alcohol

a driving force
whispers to his feet
so he gets up
craving to be free
he shifts against the grey
and plays to empty eyes
along that lost highway
the darkness settles in
filled with never and no hope
it'll be a long time
before he finds his way back home

the grit that churns on grainy steel
piercing every vein
waning, dies his confidence
he turns to rust and falls away

he stumbles back
to that dingy brick bar
plucked from fumbling travels
along unknown roads
a spun return
situated to the final track
he bends his fingers back
moves slow to the stage
singing all of doom
about that lost highway

skinned, shaven
he stands again
beneath the power of thirty light bulbs
unholy hands
still stark and exposed
a silent room
as if everyone knows
that when he’s gone
he’s gone for good

Immediate Cues

midpark, seething
you walk to find me

I'll be reading a paperback
completely disconnected
thumbing through the pages
absent and unaffected

prodding like a wanton shape
with a smile-on, innocent face
I'm all in white
yet, you don't know
I won't look over my shoulder

the line, what is
a pattern printed on my back
calling out to come foward
just a little bit more
my wall with painted symbols
of tommorow afternoon

the loser liquidated space
and gave me room to live in
never call that shine
a right I didn't put in time for

you're decorated cool + clean
against the blue screen sky
I snap a photo to remember
what this will mean tonight

from the body of alone
holding on for my own
the words come from a note
written in the fold

ooh, the solitude of every
blade of grass
you stick your fingers in the ground
they call that style and class

when you leave without a sound
like a moderated fader
there's a secret wish for tears
in the pool of daily bathers

you're looking at me loose
because I'm losing all my color
free from repeated tendencies
and a shifted point of view

a quickly toggled turn
of the stick said she
alright girl you're straight
but you'll never find me


I back myself into a corner
and my body folds into
the crease where the two
walls meet
as my skin slips from the bone
it blends in with each layered
coat of paint
that feeds the feeling
in the room
I loose my limbs in the fabric
of the ambient mood
lonesome like the eyes that
stare into the pattern
and forget there ever was a reason
for moving forward
toward the door and out
into the world
where the ceiling lifts its lid
unto the piercing sky
an unrelenting emptiness
full of stars reeling back
the time

I'm probably romanticizing
the stellar death of atoms
but I'm just trying to decide
what to do when the daylight breaks
and the moment
can no longer be captured
acceptance is relevant
only when measured against the
length of a walking stick
that's travelled much further
than these two legs have gone
thus far
loving in a second what I want
for a lifetime
a slow, purposeful development
that is just beyond my understanding
a tipping glass of water
placed along a slanted ledge
when entropy takes hold
I'll be a perched fool with a wet lap

perfection is irrelevant,
but the ideal is like a coin that
won't stop spinning
because my index finger snaps
to flick it back across the table

I pray one day that arthritis slips in
and crushes this incessent movement
that surges through my blood,
I fanticize about the twisting of
my muscles into geometric
atrophied knots, quelching the motion
that makes this music

the vacuum silences
be quiet, be still
we try so hard and gain to loose
we get up
we move

we try so hard
we try so hard
we try so hard

As the Rotary Turns

I pull the key out from under the mat
then twist the knob as I turn the deadbolt back
a candle faintly burns at rest on
the kitchen counter
how can anyone find what they are looking for?

all these plants are dying
sadly stretching for the light
sometimes I lie
and say "don't worry, they'll be just fine"
because the music that is playing sings
so sweetly to them in the dark

in the next room,
the bed is unmade and various articles of clothing
are strewn about the floor
this place is a mess
why I didn't I see it before?

it was blurred behind the warm shadow
of our bodies
just a face in place of loneliness
like a dreamless veil I mistook for a good night's sleep

but I'll wake up

I extend my limbs along the length of time,
fold my hands behind my head and close my eyes

the ceiling I picture in my mind is ornate and shameless, it's design is dripping wax pulling at the corners of my smile as the air chills my teeth I freeze and coalesce into a museum figurine waiting for the pressure to split a crack

in this grand mysterious vision of my future life, denial dissolves and the image rejuvenates in flight, quickly calling the song changes key on a greater scale than you and I

In the Field of What is Frightening

a lady of the night
restless, intriguing
eyes pass over
her figure and go blind
along her slender silhouette
her fingers send
terror slowly fleeting
she will breathe lies into your mouth
with the touch of her tongue
sucking the blood out of
everything you’ve ever known
the eponymous hunter
snatches up her prey
a caravan of men
carried off into the
silent city
lost beneath the bridge
hypnotic manipulation
her vacant illusion maddens
the crest, twisting
their screams in straightjackets
past pathological conclusions
they gather in mass confession
their dwindling strength
drops them to their knees
in a crash of depression, her
unstoppable force pierces
like an incurable shadow knife of motion

she glides forward
vacant-eyed and reaching out
like a mirror bent backward
her elusive touch
stroking the tender space
along the reigns

and to think a doctor followed her
around in her youth with a


"You haven’t been on this side of things!"
her voice desperate and shrill
shaking at the same frequency as her body,
interfering with her position.
"You don’t understand and you
don’t care. You never listen."

He stood staunch in the kitchen, trying
to ignore his native inclination to
lean back against the counter and
stare up at the ceiling. This time
he didn’t.

Instead, he surveyed
her face, as each tear crossed the
threshold of her bottom eyelid,
spilling over the edge in
small but violent waves.
Her silk lashes glistening,
aggregating with one another.

Per habit he kept his silence
suspended in the room, flooded
with hormones exacerbating the
deleterious mood of
a recycled argument that had
dug its heels into the floorboards
years before.

"Have it your way. Take your swollen tongue
to the grave. There is no resolution with you."
Quips of intimacy flake like skin and
float along the trajectory of
the air-conditioned drafts emitted
from the vents.

Stubborn self-validating
blame, fortifying deficiencies in
communication with condescending
threats and ultimatums.
She cried herself a path of tears
into the bedroom that they shared.

His laconic voice enervating her past
the point of no return. "It can’t go on
like this much longer. We must
talk about this or agree not to
talk at all."

A tender plea, her poignancy,
completely lost
on him.

Glass Box, Broken

these insistent
small talk milestones
in dual occupied elevators
the useful numbness of
no cross back speak
protests against the future
tugging on elaborate layers
of an infinite mirror
conversant reflections
hollow in themself
a peeled recession
full plot determined
by lapsed transgression

the forward march is on sabbatical
clairvoyance has taken leave
would-be people sound of static
convoluting open frequencies
squat shifts within a frame
hung among the cables
the inert panel
abreast along the shaft
corresponding levels of influence
sway under false forbearance
ensnared between floors
cement board room enjambment
lacking entwined parallel moments
coming closer to the
other side –

to enter vying for new life


“Tell me a story,” she asked as she swaddled herself in anticipation hoping for an elongated lie to conclude the circuit of every open-ended conduit. She’d been guessing for far too long now.

| It’s distilled in a small factory on the periphery of your vision. It’s a sight developing in the distance, in the dark theatre of existence, confessing like a quarter-choked motor in sync with despair. You see this setting is like salt in a wound; an opaque eye with one finger inside, almost consumed. |

There is a broken flight of stairs, ever rising toward callous habitation, a place where no one can find her.

| Here, in this factory, feelings manufacture dreams against relentless will. They breed flowers atop of nightmares. |

She imagined even more like a city in full bloom, gracious open space and subdued agoraphobic tendencies. She recalled the false opinions of her father, who always knew just what to do.

Don’t answer back… leave it be, he always said, if you pick at it enough it will scar. Counsel not limited to scabs for a slow return to memories will burn them all to ash. You’ll find static if you turn the dial too much.

Don’t answer back… leave it be, he always said.

“Where will she go after the factory?” she wondered out loud, her muffled voice caught in the gummy air appropriating every particle in the room.

| She never leaves. She fears the calling of a cold frontier. She lies in waiting, speaks in tongues, and drinks her beer. |

It was fear that paralyzed her; in pain her feet cultivated roots that dug into the floorboards beneath her shoes. She slipped the creek to write truth clean. At an early age, baptism drowned her future in disbelief.

Swallowed by unsung phrases from every love that passed, she cast a shadow over reward in favor of solitude, to leave the introduction in a clause all to its own where the comfort of silence is met with unspoken words.

If you can shake the leaves free – they’ll die and decompose and never having moved you’ll still experience the sensation of growth. A grounded capsule buried deep beneath tear-ridden soil forces the build up of oxides, which in time will rust the dirt.

“What happens next? Tell me more.”

| She sits and waits. |


| Because she is a caricature of yourself. The story is you; the lines are your veins. The blood is circulating out of your mouth into the grail, and the viscous spit you ejaculate wets your lips to tell this story to a mirror reflecting the truth back to your face. |

Flaking Pages

the truth you wanted
waiting for clearance
joyous + dreaming of vocal liberation
the sensation of water dripping from the fountain
liquid consummation
still in the sunlight
stunned + shining through soft particles
dusting every sentence in shimmering echoes
slipping slowly from her parted lips
the final moment...

unspecific speculation
showering over emotional experience
she leaps into the street
forgetting what she really needed

midnight passes + the phamplets
blowing in the wind
reflect the thoughts inside her head
she rolls her cufflinks back to grab at them
later- in the future,
she will be glad the wind took them
broken perfection left her flesh open for release
a footnote for a reference diminishing
in the presence of something bigger than fear + regret
the insignificance of light letdowns
along the path forged in lines selfmade

who did you draw them for?

bound by goodbyes + farewells coming
you can borrow all my hope for the future
you can borrow my future to make sense of the past

Night Tide


          sling sad eyesight

a vexed + crooked glance
her concentric mortal coil
unravels in my hand
dulcet humming, “Quicksilver, be still”
in the lamplight
the slow warp of time
steady + true
like your hand on the wire
smiling in the sun

you spit chemicals to clean my headache
you drip sound over the insufferable buzzing
          of interminable thoughts

she holds the token for one moment
every knuckle knocked
fingering the details

a curtsy in the foyer
daubing acid on her lips
I bend to lick the language
from her kiss

at 2:am,
the new goes dark
her warlike drum
deluded siren drone
seductive polyrhythm
cascades down

a costal refrain
when the wave-halos
reign over our insignificance

…but when you wade out
you’ll be surprised
by how little the echo
in the background
moved you


enclosed inside the patio
a window-box suite
metamorphic changeling
from grey to shifting green
the static street
is raining upside down
the curb is bending backward
over hallowed ground
a worm beneath the surface
taken by the sound
squirming in his skin
under levels in rhythm
with his fallen father
his flesh is flaking
it begins to smell
I know I shouldn't be here
but I can't leave now

empowering small spaces
emergence, coming home
the layers decay around us
a tonal breakdown on the corner


         I must see for myself
         I must know his true form
         I won't rely on what I have been told

a schism in the track
distorted elongation of
an outstretched neck
his nostrils flair to sniff
for an estate he never had
upon which motion
his head cracks open
to let his master in