Portrait of a man who drank Prometheus’s fire and pissed on the face of a God during a bar fight during a lunar eclipse. — I knew a man who lived in darkness, like two eyeless sockets staring into a microscope saying yes, I see it now. …

In the shadows of a sleeping clock, do you see the truth pass through you like the wind at twilight. — Time humbles us. It leaves us twisted in the dancing leaves of fall, pondering the illuminated days of long-ago spring. It is there as we spend time with family. Or when we see our grandparents’ wrinkles, beautiful and whole, silver hair wisping, their eyes and face, and the laugh that…

A poem about the person, the word, and… —

We dance upon the lunar heart and speak the name of eternity — Every photon is a poem. Every pixel, a hope sent to the stars, to the black canvas where song was sculpted from lips, reaches across time to unbutton my shirt. …

Ars Poetica on the horror of being a poet — True poetry is a haunting. Deep in a macabre childhood house, Where black mold slithers Like dendrites in a single memory. Nails pounded through thin walls Poking out on the other side Like teeth from a childhood monster. As Trauma clings to shattered windows. My parents lived in this house Long…

A poem about death and loss and the moments of mourning and living. — “I think of death only with tranquility, as an end. I refuse to let death hamper life. Death must enter life only to define it.” ― Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit It was hard watching you decay, A zero-sum game; a room with no exit, no escape. A keyless realm, unbound by infinite space. You…

A prose poem about being homesick and battling the relentless movement of time. — I hate being so far away from my family. Time slips, runs, and crawls along, even when asleep or lost in ink blots. Every second, my nephews age, becoming men. My grandparents are getting older, almost their time. I can’t help but weep at fallen leaves and moldy sunsets. Funerals…

Decay in the early mourning of life — I wonder what the roses felt when summer dwelt, inside the core of an irate star sizzling upon black asphalt, As the nucleus of every petal fell upon the scorched Remorse of a failed parent. Did the door know it would open to a drunk about to beat his past into the present? Life is shadow without…

A poem about the importance of listening with your whole being — I spent many years learning to listen so I could hear the sorrow of a plant without water the slowly moving bumble bee In the new heat of languid summer. …