Pull the sound from my heart and make it sing

You are the bow that runs across my strings.  Slowly and gently, as a whisper to waken my soul.

You are the fingers crashing into my piano keys.  Grabbing me, with no choice but to notice that I’ll never be the same.

Your bow now runs hard.  My strings cry.  They know the anguish that is your touch after it’s gone.

My keys find tune to my strings.  Your fingers sync with your bow.  We drift into melody and fade out like the whisper faded in.


Inspired by the song “Por Una Cabeza” 

I saw your ghost again

I can’t remember what attraction looked like before your eyes.

I’m haunted by you.

Your lips. Your stare. Your everything.

I can only see you. I think this may be how I serve my sentence. In love with someone who is in everyone, but never her.


I went to sleep last night and woke up in the future.

I went to sleep last night when I was in the past.

And in the future everything we know is different.

In the future, the past we know wasn’t at all the same.

I don’t know how long I slept to wake up in the future.

But signs I see of weathering tells me it was quite a while.

The thing, you see, is that you can’t, or at least I couldn’t find

hints of life, communities or any proof that we were still alive.

The air was thick and the ground was bare,

no grass, no green, no trees.

There were no animals, there were no people.

Just emptiness as far as I could see.

I wondered how long life lived and when we went extinct.

I worried about my own life too and if I was here to stay.

We destroyed the planet and we sacrificed the future,

we didn’t listen to what science, or nature had to say.

Rich old men who would die before any of this came to be

didn’t believe, or didn’t care about, the youth, or you, or me.

They didn’t care about green grass or the blueness of the sky.

They didn’t care about pollutants infecting sea to shining sea.

I fell asleep in these horrors of the future,

laid my head down to cry.

I was shocked when I woke up in the past

and learned I had a second chance to try.

To try and convince the people.

To turn the fortune of our desolate fate.

To treat our planet better

before it’s too late.

Even with my vision

of a future dead and bare

some people can’t be convinced

what it means to have clean water, land and air.

All I can do is heed myself

my children, and my space.

If there are still people who try

we may still save this place.




I want the night.  I want the unknown.  I want the mystery.

I don’t want to know whats coming next, as long as I know its something different.  A twist.  A curve.  An unkempt path.

Let the brush and branches be in my way.  Let me move over rocks and logs.  My steps won’t be as reckless as the road I’ll walk.

Give it all to me and I’ll be happy as long as I’m not spinning in this chair looking at these four walls.  If the trees and the sky have different faces, I’ll smile.  If the night never sounds familiar again, I’ll keep walking.

I want to experience each morning, this and every other.


We love things for reasons we don’t often know.  Sounds, smells and tastes, they all soak into our skin and become a part of how we live.  The places that give us the most comfort have an ambiance that echoes our loves.  The clattering of plates and murmur of voices while the aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air does it for some.  Others find themselves at peace under the sun with birds chirping and stillness in the air.  The beach, the city at night, the streets after it rains, they all are favorites for many different people who are more alike then they know.

For me though, I never had a place that gave me calm yet filled me with life.  For me it was different things that could never balance themselves out to perfect symmetry.  A rose alive in a dark room whispering from the shadows.  Rain to glass among howling wind on a mid-morning Tuesday.  They would come to say hello once or twice a year, but I didn’t know them very well.

It wasn’t until I met you that I thought I could have a place like everyone else had.  A comfort.  Tranquility.  You were the smell of sweet citrus in the summer.  Sticky and running down your chin from a voracious bite.  I’d lick the acidic sweetness from your lips and grow it to a kiss of tongues and heavy breaths.
After our bodies were peeled of any clothing and our colorful skin bare, ready for teeth to taste the juices inside, you became music to soothe me.  The arch of your hips and your breast curved like an instrument.  The plucking pizzicato of sensitive strings made you sing.  Your leg bowed around my back, creating music in me as you drew it across my flesh.  Our vibrations humming in pictured beauty.

That is what you are, what you were.  My sanctuary.  My garden.
You were my nature.  You were my music.
The hard winds that erode the cliffs.  The fierce waves that crash against the rocks.

You were growth.  You were life.  You were more than love.



I only caught you at a glance

while driving to my slow death,

so I tilted my neck

to get as long a view as I could.

You were beautiful and I’ll never see you again.

You had a youthful face and shadowy hair

with a snap of sun on your skin.

Eyelashes, I love a girl with full eyelashes,

I could swing from your eyelashes

down to your pink, ruffled lips.

As we moved in opposite directions

(3 seconds never seemed so short a time as in that moment.)

I groaned at fate and its constant tease

of showing me something beautiful

as she’s on her way to leave.

Honey Doesn’t Spoil

I’ve tried to write you a number of times now.  The title of this has changed a few times over because the words never landed quite right.  I wanted them to fit into something perfect.  A reflection of you but you’re not so easily reflected.

I could jump into a tirade about how I want you.  I could rant about how I need you.  There would be words spilled all over your thighs and between your legs.  The drip from my lips would coat your nipples and run up your neck.  The black ink from my pen would bleed along your jaw.  I would write you underneath me and I would write me inside of you.

None of it felt right though.  I don’t want it forced.  You can’t be forced.

Recently I was told that one of the only substances to never go bad is honey.  That there are deposits of honey that were buried with the pharaohs and were considered still good today.  Thousands of years and it can still be consumed, it sounded pretty amazing.  Honey doesn’t spoil and it made me think of you.

Your honey golden hair and that sticky taste of your kisses.  How I could come back to them after a long time apart and they’ll still have the perfect feel against mine.

I can move my fingers through your hair and feel like I can never get them out.  They’re stuck and are refusing to move.  My lips too.  My eyes.  My body.  All against you and wanting to remain.

You’re my personal taste of honey.  You’ll be just as good no matter the time we spend between swallows.

Help Me With My Words Again

I’ve been in a fog lately.  The words keep slipping out of my grasp.  They’re out there, all of them.  They’re floating around in the mist and I can see the outline as they drift by, just as I can see your silhouette in a dark room against the moonlight’s shine.

I don’t know if I’d call it a block.  I’m not really sure what a block is actually but I have the idea, its merely the execution that seems to be struggling.  But I have you so I know it’s just a matter of time.  You always help bring back the waterfall, the faucet just needs your touch.

Call it inspiration.  Call it anything you want, but you’ve always been the muse to kiss my words and make them pretty.  You are the reason I can write.  You are the reason I continue.  You are the reason I can begin again.

55 Fiction: I’ll Make You Smile Some Days

I want to tear open the sky with my hands.  I’ll spill the rain from above to watch you through its curtain.  I’ll weigh you down with wetness and I’ll soak your skin.

Close your eyes so you can feel it.  Open your mouth so you can taste it.

You’re only happy when it rains.