Moving Past Cathedral Mountain

And so we came upon a valley,
the bottom of which we could not see,
and the air buzzed with electric fog
when we approached the precipice
of our holy mountain.

We stepped, one ginger footfall
at a time, onto the rocks,
onto the roots, making our steps silent
as we descended into the valley.

The buzz and hum of the air
rattled in the thick humidity.
Our gasping throats opened to drink
what water we could gather from the fog.

And as the valley came closer
to our hungry eyes,
the need for anything fell away
and our appetite was replaced
by an emptiness.

We stared out with blank eyes
on the green we had come to see.
The fruitful land was ready and welcoming
but we were far from home.

Our holy mountain loomed on
our descent into the valley
and our eyes dimmed in the shadows
as the mountain blocked out the sun.


Darkwood County–A Fantasy In Photographs

There are things hidden in these thickets. Wonderful things. Magical things.

Under the overpass and into the unknown, passing through and passing over. Passing by. Passing away.

One last thing to remember. One last trace of something familiar.

It wasn’t the eyes that gave him away. It was the sound when he wept.

Nothing left I can claim as familiar. Just his eyes. Weeping and blind.

opening the devouring chasm

closing the gap between
our strange times
and our strange history

we mark our progress
on our pilgrim’s path
with the breadcrumbs

left by the centuries
that came before us

we scatter the trail
when it becomes inconvenient,
too irksome, too problematic

we can’t see the gap
becoming wider

we can’t see the chasm
opening its jaws
to devour us when we forget

we forget to step lightly
we forget to move forward

we forget what we
don’t want to know
and never look upon

what we wish
we hadn’t seen

we scatter and cower
we fall into
the chasm we created

by never looking
down from the high
road we’ve taken

descending muses

They paint all their stories in the light of day, breaking through the layers of time-hardened rock to be born into dancing rhythm, up and down, rise and fall with a metre set by the thrumming metronome of heart-to-heart organic music, musing with their minds the creation of descending muses, taking flight into fantasy, emerging from the dust of what was made into a landscape of unformed narratives, stories waiting to be told.

I Am A City

I am a city of phantom limbs. A crying catharsis. An opulent menagerie of the cruelest and the kindest.

I am a city of carion crows. Desert perches. Silent beggars, hands outstretched for a fistful of wheat. Heat waves. Cold storms brewing, coming down from the north and sweeping over the clay fields in ice sheets.

I am a city of long memory. Stretching into the dust of ancient. Dragging a finger through bone and silt, stone tablet etchings, undeciphered.

I am a ghost of forgotten dreams. Built and rebuilt. Destroyed. Conquered. Sacked. Traded. Redistribution of wealth. Mockery. Shame. Dignity undefiled.

I am a city with hands in my pockets. Turning my eyes to meet the stars. I am the wet eye blinking. Failing. Starting again.

I am a city of conjuring. Wet earth doused in flame. Salted. Growing on the remnants of what came before.

I am a city of passing. I am a city of bones. I am a city of lamps and spinal slithering open wounds.

Turn up your cups that flow with wine. Pour you light into me.

open lens

my eye opens to let the light in
a quick blink–
more than that and i go blind–
and what i see is forever

i know you

i know how your hands feel
when you take me in your fingers
allowing me to wake up
for milliseconds at a time
my eye trained on what
you want to immortalize

i know you better than anyone

your loves, your face, your touch,
where you go, what you do–
i remember it all
while you forget

every time my eye opens
my retina is burned with
shadows and light

i remember while you forget

until you take me apart
and unspool my eyes
burning the memories away

Watch “Cosmic Thinking- Car Poem #1” on YouTube

This is the first part of a series of spoken performances.

When I first started writing, I always wrote in my car. My car remains my main workplace. It helps to give me a sense of what writing is and does. In a car, you are in the world, but still separated from it slightly. The glass of the windows, the metal of the body, provides enough of a barrier for me to observe, but still recognize the connection between myself and the other.

This series is meant to convey that sense of separate-connectedness aurally and visually. It is something of a testament to my own process of writing as well as a statement on writing in general.

There are twenty-one parts to this series. Together, they form a sort of visual chapbook. Each poem is complete in itself, but together they hopefully form a narrative not by the content of the writing/speaking, but through the form in which the individual pieces were created.

The first “chapbook,” Car Poems, is complete and available for viewing on my YouTube channel,

A new series, Image Poems, is in the works and new performances will be posted regularly.

Thanks to all my readers and viewers. Your positive feedback and criticisms are always welcomed and appreciated.