A poem to those teenage years, long ago — We fled our homelands but not ourselves searching for art in the chaos hiding our hearts in jagged hills and steep highways tipping over mountain ledges just to feel something new to hear death cackle like ravens over a dumpster fire. Sunshine on our tongues burn as we recite the poetry of dreamlike surrealist paintings With the caresses of…

Memories like faded hearts — I emptied the penny jar looking for the coin, he gave me long ago but all that was left were copper memories buried in the ruins of an old home and reflections off the moldy glass with a cracked fractaling across the center. Stripped of paint with a smell of…

A riddle that isn't much of a riddle at all — I’m plagued by it As if the bulbous were crawling From my legs to my throat Slithering ants across my skin Yet, in the darkest twilight, it becomes a lamp Bioluminescence without color yet an allure as powerful as a galaxy strewn across the form of your body of that insatiable Eternal desires I once carried…

The thing about loss is… — I’m watching the stars fade and dim Feeling the clock with every wrinkle And I’m running again but staying in place I’m fleeing the shadows of yesterday As they cackle and grin like hobos on a train Passing a fifth between toothless narratives of eternal what ifs, as wheel upon steel takes them from Santa Fe to…

We’re just entangled particles careening through space and time. — Stillness like a frozen waterfall entropy held at bay for just a moment or a few hundred days. Ink falling, twisting vortices of doubt in a cup of milk I had this morning and then came the crash of matters splattered upon a canvas I saw it in slow motion, just like a movie I heard you say…

For those days, you feel like cracked sea glass — We poured blood and ink upon the page all the while holding regret in our glass chalices drunk on self-pity and playing with the empty ring flinging drunk curses whatever lost gods there are left in this atheistic world of self-fulfilled delusion prophecy without sight, a myth without legend everything not told and hidden, those dark twilights…

A middle finger to all those who doubt — I live a life of improbabilities. Starting from my existence or being an author or a scientist. The fact that I am alive is improbable. The fact that I breathe is improbable. I’ve yet to observe complex breathing and thinking creatures on another planet. …

To the past, like a blade across the heart — His wife died and left him with four boys and a girl. He drank and beat them — called it parenting. He would go on benders for weeks and leave them alone — they’d eat canned food and steal from the local supermarket; an old Greek named Adonis knew this, always looking the…

Writing Prompt — On the road to Spring — The world wakes up as I make my way up 3200 ft toward the summit of Sandias. Slowly but surely, like an old man rolling out of bed, joints aching and heart palpitating toward the blinding light ablaze through life's windowsill — as dust coats the floorboards with ancient promises…