undone, and unsaid.

In the silence of his sorrow, 
He awaited tomorrow,
But he thought of yesterday. 

His vision was converged to the walls, 
Body captivated in the halls, 
Of his glass home. 
And his bare bones, 
Searched slowly for signs, 
All confined in the same design.
One corner to another,
One room was just the other's brother.

Time began to fade, 
And wear away, 
Its face was handmade, 
But it lost to the days, 
And became a creature with no features, 
Wandering lost, and gawking at the frost, 
On the violet hills of his memory. 
His mind was a memorial now. 


“Whenever something whole consumes something incomplete, it becomes unfinished too. For the reason that now it needs more, and it doesn’t have it. First glance, everything about life right now seems unclean, and whatever words I say have no place. There’s no Craigslist go getter coming to fix anything. And what am I supposed to do with this start? Nothing?

I’m elbowing everything down time’s throat right now, and I’m hoping it won’t throw up on me later. In terms of black and white, I’m still nowhere permanent. Transition phase. Forever. And this forever has no end unlike other forevers. Shit, no, that’s not true. Very sensational.”


Putting his best foot first off the ledge of the bed, 
As the sun slowly glistened outside, 
Striking its rays at the ground in installments,
The tired bed-covers hugged the floor, 
And he arranged his feet level to the door. 
His habits reflected conditions,
And he practiced life like it was his religion.
What felt strange then was the complicated information;
The distance between him and the door,
Could be the same as him and his past. 
If it was locked in dimensions of numerical measurements, 
And pensive estimations. 
Maybe all that was suspended between today and yesterday, 
Was a brick bedded bridge. 
He made his way back to then. 
And he held the door undone for a while, 
He was open for the time. 
Don't let him see through the clocks, 
Now running races before his eyes, 
He twisted their arms to meet, and to lap over one another, 
And when what he was winding was wound, 
What he was finding was found. 
The separation and space, 
Was a little more than his legs could fathom without numbing. 
So, he went back to sleep, 
In his favorite place, 
Next to the sunrise, 
Wearing water on his skin. 

Dim Haven

A reckless mind in a restless body, he seeked answers. 
In the beginning it was about the end, 
In the end, it became about his start. 
He dove heart first into the sea, 
His knees grew in neap tides, 
and he rose an illuminating height. 
Gazing at the blazing vapors of water, 
And unapologetic. 
It seemed a vehicle. 
To disappear, 
Into the wild, wild blue. 
And he gently turned and pushed back the hands of the sea, 
Aching to embrace him, 
And he divided waves with his fingertips, 
Parting currents, 
To reach the shore.
Then he heard the quiet whispers of the fluttering waters, 
And he listened closely, 
Connecting the words into a glistening circuit, 
That sparked and powered a fluctuating sequence of his answers. 

There was a story; a mystery under the flaps of each time, 
And he would slowly exhale the dust fastened to it, 
As he lived a life, 
And as he stood with himself, 
When he searched for happiness. 
Then he would know,
Where his solace flows. 

What now?

I can feel the scratches unravelling something of saddening depth, as I try to claw my way out of things I have exits for. What am I doing? I’m being loud, so you can listen, I’m being silent, and so you can taste the outlines of fine print when you search for prayers, and answers here without repetitive interruptions.

I’ve pressed my chest against the hallway, and there are the blaring sounds bouncing off the walls, straight into my ears, and it seems to hurt. They’re only and always echoes. I start to fiend for the source, I push my shoulders towards the wall and my abdomen forward, I raise myself and walk freely towards the door. I walk free. As if there is no magnet in my mind that’s attracting the metallic stiffness of fucked-up daydreams, which have been washing in to make a brain beach, which I can’t touch or reach, and don’t have the courage to explore or imagine. But in the end the source, a goddamn thought, seems pointless, and dishonest, so I settle down on the floor, I lean into the air and bow my forehead to the ground, I urge my blood to recede off my fingers, to make them numb as I cradle my nostrils, and fiddle with my shoelaces. The receding blood rushes intimately through my body, there’s a focus region, its large, and it hits me from angles, that I’m too attached to envision and I……..

“I pray to catch you whispering, I pray you catch me listening”

It’s a first-class, second-hand word to live by. And I do get high off the sound, and I mingle tears and soda, and I combine some informational spit into the medley as I began to stomach it. Sometimes I think I’m an addict of my prison, maybe because I built it, and my fascination towards its design is my self-absorption. It’s strange what I’m doing right now.

Close to Never Ending

His naked eyes were stripping further into blindness, but not before watching the answer to his call.

His call for help.

As he stood in the middle of the road, the wind seemed to draw in from corners, reaching slowly once, then quickening and ripping toward him from every direction. It ceremonially roared and rotated before touching him, now holding him in an unreal clutch.

The air became forceful to push it’s way out of the crowd, toppling other particles to grasp the sky, reaching reaching. And the storm then deflected. Still with eyes on him.

He was untouched then. But lost. And he heard knocks and sirens, as if he was being divinely crazed alone. Life continued. Without him.

And he stared into the twisting, turning sky, sipping seas, the sun blinking and blazing in flutters of the dawn, as it submarined across the desolation soaked storm.

Uneasy darkness settled but only in him. He could see people flashing torch lights and lanterns around the translucent walls of the wind, chasing after one another. They were speaking of the news, and new apartments, and openings in ozone, and if their was life on Mars. Nobody knew.

A brave design marked his brain. And he crossed his mind with strength, knowing he didn’t have a lot, reading into an existence of his own. Operating in the future, he would be more sure of the unknown, and prepared and repaired for all that has been and will.

Lost in the Mirror

“There’s an incessant greed to take, pushing up on me, and cornering me into dangerous edges of my capacities, aiming doubts along the black and white outlines, keeping me from inching away into different places, each fading day, softening, loosening away from time, and circling around the bottom of my head, lifting my mind in watery uprising. And me being descriptive of it, fronting my personal revelation, the intimate revolution that is cycling around my lips as I breathe into decisive space, gazing at the ghost lost in my reflection, slowly emerging in urgent reaches of my fingers, seems spastic and loud, an escape. So much definition crawls around when we dream, and our mind loses threads that connect to the puppet that is our body, accomplishing compromises, and promises. But in the end, when the sun sets, and the sky dims, something whirls and twirls and spins, I can feel it rushing in, its heartlessly inevitable, and it washes into me, an ocean of my realizations, and my identity starts to surface another time. Then I know, as I embrace the secrets and the flawed laws of myself, that there are bridges to construct, and the work that goes behind it won’t have me losing my mind, and if lost, its someplace I can find. And I can grow, and not grow blind”



Hiding behind the sunrise,

A reflection whose hands stretch to the night,

While the day rests on his chest.

Him and I, we have common comforts.

As he gambles his eyes to shadows to travel into sleep,

I don’t let him leave me behind,

Because everything has darkened into a pitch-black sky,

There’s nothing here for me anymore,

And I don’t want to be on my own.

A promise summersaults on the string to which I have him tied,

And an escape is not flying in the open for him to create or find.

We become runaways,

Running from all the signs,

Searching for warnings on people’s mouths,

Arresting holy war,

Scratching visions of the road on the walls.  

There’s something there for me, places and people,

On these counted cards,

So I shelve him and them on the corner of every chance,

Now, I’ll never be alone.

turning tables and clicking clocks

It felt like everything had moved elsewhere like thin paper at the first contact of water. Shrunk away.

Soon, the anguish was gone, his ashy arguments narrated once in sounds that twirled like swirling gusts of air, now enclosed in bubbles that would shatter violently at everyones sighs. He was left neglected.

Silence conquered the territories that once kept him proud, emptied his heart, flooded his mind with infesting taints of agony, of a hollow eyed longing. He lost himself.

Regret started to crawl in old photographs, and behind each mirror was a blackening memory, necrotic and wilting, like petals curling up in their final hours. Time began a changing image, infected by habits, a running movie in which he chased himself away, into rivers of tragic returns.

His hands would gnaw at pages, his lips would recite promises of the past, dreams that vanished into what seemed like another life. A head full of compelxteies that was mingling with blood and seeping into his shuttered mouth, flowing into fingers mounted atop static legs, body ungiving.

And he tried, and he cried, he broke loose into shards that blanketed the floor that made troubles bleed into its fractures.

Forever Ago

There’s empty, open spaces once where things used to float about.

And those things were clinging to each word I said, and hiding in everything unsaid, and unseen.

Now, all my dusty daydreams are clearing away to make banks, and all hope washes in and takes away parts of it and flows downward.

If I follow this river and search for myself, will I see myself as a shadow on a surfaced rock, or will I see myself at the bottom floundering with all my life?

Could I see the sky then, is that the persistence of hope? Of dreams?

As I chase after myself, gazing hungrily at all I took down in my watery disappearance, will I have new things to keep?

Will I tire and breathlessly rest against the dusty beach of those things?

I’m coasting away, and yet still circling the same surrounding.