(Open a window
There is a breeze outside)

Lying in the sheets, sick to the world
And trying to keep a semblance
Of stability to its face-
All of my pretending is real.
The rain has swollen the wood in the door,
The sun has made it crack,
Either way it won’t let me out or in
And I was trying to run away-
Should the earth quake or the wind blow
Incase these walls might fall in-
To find the tallest tree to wrap my arms around
Should the sea try to claim me,
Its roots go down to the very core
And I will never let go.

I’m not pretending to be in pain-
I am.
Dreaming of Jerusalem

Looking at the corner-
At a tiny world so dramatically lived in-
The mouse-poor frustrated grocery-bagger,
Coffee-shopped, nicotine girl is lamenting
On the state of boyfriend’s piercings –
Ears, nose, nipples, cock and the sleeve he’d
Rather save for than spending any cash on her-
And after she bought all the weed.
He’s a hero because he’s read Kerouac.
Her glass-blown pipe is the coolest thing.
Pretentious is a word yet to settle in.
The benefits of College Education.






At times I feel so overwhelmed by genius, I wonder why I should even bother with trying. Nothing I do could ever compare with what I have come to admire. The craft and the passion of an artist, of any sort, is something I’ve always coveted, yet never achieved.

I’ve been listening to more music recently, and paying attention to each individual instrument, and how each note is woven together with one another, I’m left feeling dumbfounded. The incessant rhythm of drums, the foundation of the bass, or reverberating strum of a chord; the math and calculation behind something as ordinary as “rock and roll” becomes as complex as a calculus equation. How beauty emerges from humans, either alone or within a group, is astounding. If there was ever one thing that does separate us from the rest of animalia, it is the practice of creating beauty for beauty’s sake alone. Sometimes we can be truly amazing beings.

And along comes me, tanked on a half bottle of red, taking more photographs of myself, and scribbling first-fulls of embarrassment…



images of bird and butterflies stolen from my Wilco book.