the dawn peers over the horizon,
beginning its burning of mist
in a glow tinted orange.

orange like the salt lamp upon
the bedpost, a candlelight vigil
drenched by deep blue sheets and
sea foam irises.

the lovers’ flesh fused overnight,
harboring dewy eyelids and fresh
pulses of the heart. a finger
traces across the gully of a chest.
inseparable as the sun kisses
the horizon’s other shoulder.


soliloquy on the Centennial Garden

a palpable summer, superimposed
on an ashy cumulonimbus looming above
the horizon, scraping away at a glassy
menagerie of towers.
the sun eats at the white bloom. hot
rays licked, glazing skin to a
lukewarm red. we bask in its
consumption on a blanket of grass.

the earth untangles, sprawling towards
the sky. petrichor beckons for a balmy shower.


This poem used the words found on the Predictive program on my iPhone’s keyboard. Line breaks are of my own discretion.

the way we do this
we should try it out
because it makes me so sad
and we both are so different  

you are different from me
but i can tell you that you are
a beautiful person who can
be the best person to me 

i don’t like me but
that’s not a bad thing to me
because you know that
you are a good person to be 
the only one for me


summer in the city

moist heat on sidewalks
didn’t stop my walks around
aisles of picture books.

blue plastic pool filled
of mermaid dreams and wide seas
on concrete driveways.

six quarters meant wealth
in the form of a soft serve
by a singing van.

parks oozing with life,
games of tag and hide and seek,
refuge on a swing.

electric lightning bugs,
luminescent on my palms,
til dusk do us part.


in a swarm of heat, the flesh soon
rendered tight and suffocating. the
tears pooled on sheets, cheeks
turning wet and wrinkled, as if
barely swimming. the body ravaged,
trembling away at emptied words like
an inflated currency. love is a
commodity, sold over and over until
a tragedy of the commons reaches
inevitable. the only sensuality remains
in the dystrophy of our soul.


“In my mind I see fingers grasping at a fabric caught in the wind. With each attempt to take hold, the fabric is nearly lost.”

it’s like
the time i dropped a thermometer on laminate tile and watched
as the thing shattered into glass shards and mercury beads. i
learned of quicksilver from sweeping up the silvery liquid and
my curiosity.

with all nine lives still intact, life became a game
of bong hits and night trips and dirty quips and
tally marks etched on the backs of other boys. one
long lesson of snakes and ladders with chance as the

a day after sweeping, my foot caught on to a shimmer of
glass, which looked a bit like the mercury. i flicked
it off, quietly hoping the poison avoided my bloodstream.