Fathering Sunlight Within Semblance Revolutions 

There’s a place in my being

where you have long-since glimmered

in a chamber, but not in the physical-orbit.

You revolve in a vastness and in esprit

causing me

to stumble upon the edge of dawning:

I have known you

before your body

had ever been proclaimed into being,

before you came whirling into existence.


You flicker into illustration within my inner-vision

making the spot between my eyebrows


and radiate;

I know this to be the seat of my soul.

And when the eclipse of the eyes occurs

and I am returned to the void

within shadow

and silence—

in these moments, often

you come spiraling into the masslessness

a sphere of comfort

and I hover towards a beacon of resolve

my clutter dissolves and I glimpse

and see sense and framework.


Lambent you arrived

like a pirouette of jubilee,

child of mine I have long-since known.

And as the world gyres

lowery-spinning to blow out its own light,

you revolve in your own expanse

an orb glowing

with warmth

and emanating

a likeness to the sun.


Cast to Satisfy

I sewed gold into my skin

so I’d be shiny enough

for you

to pick me up

place me in your pocket

never forget me


like a fragment of subconscious


withering coin

from some lost



and I’m pointless traveler

and you dangerous ruler

gold buys power

my body

is radiant misery

so expend me







Atoms collide with one another in a basement apartment.

Wood, plastic, and nickel

reverberating echos of the big bang. No light shines here

except that of the dead (rock)stars pinned on the wall in their paper moments.

Another boom sounds:

the guy upstairs is yelling. We’re sinning.

Skin taut over celestial domes and ascension of terrestrial

forces shake the forest of beer bottles on the coffee table.

We’re drowning in the voice

of god’s false prophet–once empty

vessels, now giving birth to universes on a pull-out couch, but universes starve

for a cigarette break. And who are we

to deny creation its fix?

Let’s take five before we attempt philosophy with melody and rhythm 

as we struggle-carve the face of meaning with

sound in the dinge.




image credit to David Welker. Title is Band Practice.

Neurotically Divine

You scatter ashes reminiscent of the master’s flash

of adderall-chasms elicit of wit with teeth gritting

on the fringe of being afraid and bearing

the weight of sails with no available land to assure

your roam to conquer the weird but we’re all obscure

here so the allure lies in the skyward dirt

where unfurled limbs bury themselves in stationary elevation

and point questions at any choice that chooses to anoint

lack of patience when the pages between being daft

and faithless tend to send you left beckoning for filler

in the receptive sector of your bereft skull.



The road and the tale have both been long, would you not say so? The trip has been long and the cost has been high… but no great thing was ever attained easily. A long tale, like a tall Tower, must be built a stone at a time.

― Stephen King, The Dark Tower



pretend there isn’t

a difference between

iridescence and building stone

now build the skeleton of a Dark Tower

and sew its skin from eras’ swaying doors

make it a place where time and space oscillate

place it at the Nexus of all things

then bury it

bury it low in your memory

then watch

watch as your own center

pulsates at the speed of creation

as the Tower fascinates all of your senses

 answer its call for you

now go find the origins

of imagination’s architecture

Image by Ned Dameron

Verge of What is Known

All I really know is the jungle.

The breath of the earth here

is oppressively giving—

planting me in sweat and spirit.

Sirocco lovers dance at its borders

where the trees end and the sands begin. I see

them as dust-born guardians.

Occasionally men in plated creatures

try to wade through the sea

of beige. But they never seek

refuge in the dim-green.

My sanctuary. I think

they are afraid

that the trees and the things

that dwell here will swallow

them whole

into an eternal night

and this is true.

They are unwelcome.

But the bravery of the men dilates,

they pass closer to the shadow-leaves. I hope

they never come.

They embody craving and smell of poisoned fire.