inclement whether

On kite-flown fields we stood,
and gaze aligned therefrom,
went heavenward to ground.
We followed those stares down:
Eyes dark then did alight
On feet, unknowing where
our feet should go.
We fled the fielded land.
Directionless we ran.

And over-shoulder, sprinting,
saw the cloud-banks billow
black and set to follow;
Past past we moved to morrow.
Fields failed and then fell fallow.

Sun, curtained was covered
And shadows closed to claim us.
The rain threatened to reign us.
And thunder clapped applause
and flung arc-lights to blind us;
alight our lapine flight up-slope.
We bolted from the bolts.

We reached the peak and there
Surveyed the drowning flood:
The marshes made to mud,
the former land awash,
and all the marks erased.
From shattered sticks and brush
We built a roof
from the castaways of trees.
Sought shelter in the now:
Our prior path destroyed
by the indifference of clouds.



electricwire hum,
arcing brainthrough
in cicadapitches. Harrowing,
sleepceasing; erases
the punctuation of slumber

we are so easily contained

Future archaeology will probably just involve computer forensics. Its weird to think that everything there is to know about our culture is probably just going to be on an old hard drive somewhere in a hundred years’ time.

hack writer

The problem was, life turned out to lack any coherent narrative structure. In reflecting, he would attempt to impose one upon it, as one does with dreams when trying to describe them; and all context and tone would be lost in the attempt to organize events for clarity. Life did not have rising action, a climax or denouement – or, when those elements did occur, they’d happen at all the wrong places. The whole thing was terribly plotted, and damn near unpublishable in its current form.


Abyss stares back-

devoid of awkward eye-contact.

Seductive ploy employs;

its voice a void you can’t avoid.

Whispers, sweet nothings.


Losing to the foundering:
Lash me to the world, and
I’ll captain it;
slip beneath indifferent waves.

Cast Away

The ship we’d stood upon, it sank.
We flung ourselves into the seas.
And drowning as we cast our pleas,
we wrote ourselves for anyone who’d care to read us.
The waves goodbye to greet us.

And long after we walked that plank,
The ocean drank the ink and swallowed.
The paper may as well be blank.
Our message was the bottle.

Quiet Drive

I am too-far-travelled.

Pedaled-down, through glass

Pass roadsiders blown-tired.

Radio voices, interred,

become crackle and hiss;

familiar channels fading.

Along the exitless road,

U-turnless to you-

I am losing my stations.