Ingesting Stars

To the anonymous person who posted this on one or more social media sites – (I can’t believe I’m saying this) – thank you.
You didn’t have to read it.
You didn’t have to like it.
You didn’t have to share it.
You didn’t have to credit me.
But thank you.
As a result, my day has been made, at the very least.
You can’t know what it means.

The Poem is the Thing -


Soupy black universe

peppered with the dust

of planets and meteors and history

rounds against

the back of my throat

as I turn myself inside out

and swallow







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Insomnia Loves Me – A Collection

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Sleep is an illusion


This pale sea offers broad horizons

The static expanse of ceiling white void

narrows its eyes

twists its mouth at me


Rest is unsolicited advice


I hate television more all the time

From people’s pixelated mouths

spew diluted melodrama

and hyperextended definitions of



From the tops of auspicious coifs

arise and burst the bubbles of


And they make me hate people

for loving them so


[I hyperextended my knee twice in the same year of high school, which wasn’t the year I got mono and sacrificed offerings to the library gods and the Dodge ram’s head for small mercies upon my wretched boredom]


Repose has never lived here


I keep coming back to that same quote…

Some tragic Greek philosopher or other

will always invade my bumper-to-bumper mind, I suppose

Or at least Bill Watterson.


There are so many books

full of devastating ideas

I just don’t open because I am afraid

to wear them out

to break them down

To somehow take them from their shelved alters

and for granted


[I don’t think the movies ruined our lives. Romantic ideals are born of lazy imaginations]


My quiet breath and I

pass the minutes into hours

the hours into words

the words into morning

and coffee and August come early




I can’t stop, can’t sleep

can’t sleep

all this hot soup in my head

won’t sustain the morning


Can’t keep from staring into the black

that doesn’t allow for shadows

Can’t stave off militias of disappointment, miniatures of greed

Can’t hide myself in false dismissiveness

Can’t help the chill bumps

of the first familiar “Salome” notes

which, after all these years, should be relaxing

comforting, and aren’t


I can’t sleep, but my mental red pen does

In its absence I cannot abide

to let the pages go on feeling unappreciated

The sedative someone slipped me when I WAS sleeping

has worn off

How convenient it would be to blame

Decades of environmental plunder

for the things I now uncensor

But no


I just got used to being seen

on less mentally unstable terms

and tried to transplant all my organs there


I think the rejection is saving my life




Maybe it’s the way my thoughts spin

counterclockwise in the bed

Maybe it’s the way my feelings show

in growth throughout the evening

Maybe it’s the way I need

the words in my mind


I can’t keep these trains of thought

from running the rails

any more than I can keep

the clouds from swallowing themselves


Sometimes moments come and go

with little comment

Sometimes time compounds inside my chest

Sometimes every eyelash

spans eternity


I don’t mind mountains of truth

backdropping my dreams

so long as truth and I

can recognize each other


Still the night excoriates me

in silent places

Still change happens

while I lie paralyzed

Still I sit and conjure possibilities




Dogs make for poor pillows




Note: All poems will now be posted on The Poem Is The Thing( here on WordPress. Thanks for reading!

Speed of Life


1108 feet per second

Bare feet and back roads

Windows flung to the afternoon

Decided din announcing mischief

Nostalgia racing vinyl grooves

to mind’s core


1215 kilometers per hour

Melancholy curl

tucked behind an ear

Prudent, fetted, evolutionary

Oh, what becoming

in the possibilities of strings


741 miles per hour

Keeping time in our minds

somewhere between proximity

and valance electrons




In the South

it is necessary to be light of heart

The air is an entity unto itself,

its heaviness all-encompassing


Concrete porches shed skins of heat

Daylight malfunctions above the trees

Patches of sky stare,

blanks on the souls of the heavens


In summer sometimes scenery is everything

without imposing like capricious, pouty Atmosphere,

who swallows all she meets down her hot throat


Those who escape her live out their moments

in the longing she induces

her breath forever against their collars


[An old piece, reworked]

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