In stereo

Everyday has been a

Shoot first mistake

Enough so to

Throw in the towel.

Tasting hell burning down heaven.

Groove cut for later questions

Footmarks of tongues

In the house

(S)worn to secrecy

Haven’t had a good reality in years

That much is known

* * *



There was/Research


About it  – sound a

S/word – conversion

Dead to the 4G world

Airplane mode

Rubbing elbows in stereo


Should Beware

The gentle caresses of a curse lull to sleep both grace and karma neither quick to action and fate is just another name for coincidence.

Foolish thing desire,

A hollow bell summoning attachment to the feast but there are no silver grains of rice and apricots with emerald pits but empty as coconut relieved of its juice.

A cocoon  leading to metamorphosis or worse yet, back to caterpillar, crawling up branch to find that particular leaf.

There is some happiness stolen from it bite by bite.

Eating without satisfaction but not eager to see Ramadan or Lent. The fast seasons leaving one begging for dates devoid of tahini or just a scrap of meat and wants feel more like needs.

But this could push moth into being

Then the sweaters should beware.

From Enter The After-Garde

Habits travel out from the heart

deep and stiff as canyon walls

Further forcing

another Golem

into being.

Furious sleep takes reign

over narcoleptic beast.


Sometimes even a twig

is enough to hide behind

And so

In turn,

secrets and ennui

creep back

hidden in harmony’s

quick refrain.


Only a moment
is needed to hold
onto a memory
and shift the view.
You know once something is committed
to the mind it becomes
a new existence
Then again,
lyrics well-known
are lost, changed, degraded
as days grow
and what was looked forward to

Scythes Dropped

Scythes dropped for oars

And the cranes

put to halt

for the nets,

and spinning spools –

unwinding down

trenches, through


breaking with ebb

and crest.



Heart on course

for leaving behind

every last

and rebuilt




The cup and the bell


The warm chocolate

against the sounds

of snow falling

from the tolling

for whom?

The hours honored in chimes

require libation


to fit occasion,


And whether or not

it’s worth it at all

to call out the next

60 minute


Excerpt from Yawning on the Sands

Excerpt from Yawning on the Sands

What comfort came next in form’s betrayal

was known as merged.

Beast without burden

laid down

watched over waves

– figures afraid of sleep

turned back to streets

to factory

to see future emerge

broken from mold

from origins disposed.

Destruction post-supposes structure.

* * *

No sandcastles could be built

without daydreams

but perhaps a daydream is “cousin to tears”

            (Velimir Klebnikov)

which serve only to sting and wash away

what was made

to give fantasy home

on beach day