Footprints of the Fall, 2005

When Sol our sun lays by the hill,
Miss Luna of the nighttime fills
through the clouds of silver shrouds
to hide the listless tendrils blue.
Under the moon she passed too soon,
a star she came and flew.

Why do we climb if just to fall?
Why do we live and die at all?
We do we love, why do we lie?
Why do we laugh1

I once knew a girl who died,
who kissed the Lips of Suicide.
I knew her for a long, long time,
that laughing girl, that friend of mine,
who one day my way stayed a time.
She stayed with me for one day, one,
but when the last knot came undone,
her life because of sorrow spun,
never saw she again the sun.

We met by chance, through but a glance,
Of a mutual friend of ours;
we went to eat,
we had a drink,
and all those treasured hours—
Each moment was a thousand flowers,
Bloomed ripe yet now are dead.
chrysanthemums that crimson red
like a crown upon her head.

She went to sleep,
I to her read:
“We are the footprints by the sea,
nobody else,
just you and me.”
That night I went to sleep with ease,
the first time in so long,
we slept together both alone.

She walked into my dream world, while,
she held a bottle full of smiles.
And in those dreams,
we walked through streams,
and saw some deer walk by.
Above us mocking buzzard’s called,
I looked at her and sad I saw,
her wistful face turned to the sky
where the buzzards in a circle fly,
Waiting on my friend to die.

She dreamed of a stairway too,
where rivers red turn royal blue,
we walked until we found a door,
then drunken stumbled on the shore,
she screamed and no one heard,
calling like a wounded bird;
Nobody heard,
nobody saw.
The dying footprints of the fall.

She never got to see the sky,
the clouds in raveled fleeces by,
when the sun rose in the morn,
the light of day was scattered, torn,
into tendrils colored grey;
she never got to see the day,
she never got to wonder why:
the flower falls under the sky.


She came to see me, one last time,
tried to call, got the machine,
and on it I heard her scream,
“I’m sick. I’m sorry. I need help.
Somebody save me from myself.”

In my dreams she came again,
we walked alone the shore, the sand,
we lay together, laughed, and smiled,
the public face of fireflies
like diamonds glittered in the sky
and when the memory washed away,
on the last of all her days,
I was left with just that glass,
reflecting happy faces past,
which for a while we saddened wore,
in those dream worlds on the shore.

Out footprints in the sand have gone,
seagulls who sang those songs have flown,
when all the blind men have gone home,
into that golden sun, and Dawn,
where starlight scatters on the grass,
her face reflects in waves of glass,
Our Sol above long shadows cast,
like the moonlight during day,
where the ghosts of yesterday
with shadows walk where shadows play.

Where once I walked I oft return,
the deaf black Sea our mother’s urn,
where my Madonna died.
Where in the skies her lullabies
sonorous cascading from the skies.
She tried to call,
did not get through
no signal, nothing left to do,
nothing to stop the fall.
Nothing to stop them, buzzards call

, why do we cry?
Why do we have to say goodbye?
We cannot see beyond the sky,
but in the gutter still we try.
Why do we ask?
If still we call,
the path the footprints of the fall.

I last saw her on a dreary day gray,
and we walked through an iron maze
through the ivy and the haze
where fire
flies light the night.
She wore a satin robe and gown,
with red blush on her face.
I watched her for a moment,
Today was enough for me,
no need for dreams or fantasies,
where in she walked in steps by me,
and I said aloud:
No need for Heaven, for me God,
It’s good enough right now.


The Last Soliloquy, 2005


Beside a candle late at night
My glasses on and all was quiet;
With candles as my reading light,
After all day walking by the sea,
As though it were a dream, it seemed,
I’d brought a ragged book with me.
I then heard faint upon the door
Three soft knocks and then no more.

My book I sat beside the table
On a lamp stand less-than-stable,
walking fast as I was able
Across the floor and to the door,
The candle in my shaking hand
was sitting on a candle stand
Looking out I dared implore, and stood—
Gazing at a moon-bathed wood.

Nothing there but trees, but quiet
twisted elms with shrubs beside it
a shadow of its form behind it
I felt between my toes the grass,
And somewhere heard a young girl laugh.
Like shadow puppets on a wall,
dancing lively – standing tall
I saw a young girl’s shawl and dress
Drift into the wilderness.

The dress was blue, and lined in lace
the cold wind blew against her face,
I followed her and then she turned,
She would not look at me, and spurned,
I came to the end of a turn-around—
And, reaching it, I nothing found:
Just a whisper low, it said:
“Want to know what it’s like to be dead?”,

Terror crept through, terror ran,
Kicking up the night-time sand,
Her childish laughter ringing out,
“What,” I said, then turned to shout:
“Tell me what it’s all about.”
The rustling of the midnight leaves,
It almost seemed to speak to me;
Again I heard the voice, ahead,
A sleeping owl woke and said—
to the jester on the throne it read:
“We’ve all awaited you.”

I saw nothing but peered through,
The woods a subtle tint of blue,
strange it was for me, to see,
A lonely owl speak to me.
“Who,” it murmured, “Who?” it said,
Again, “What’s it like to be dead?”

In the ground not far away
I saw the curtail of the blue dress sway
Then her brown eyes clear as day,
She found a mirror on the ground,
and walked through it without a sound,
I went through too and thought I knew;
Where I was when washed ashore,
the same words came just as before.
The girl between the trees—she said,
“What does it feel like to be dead?”

There was a trap-door in the woods,
We passed through it then we stood;
The fireflies binary light—
like the lost stars glowing bright,
they flickered in the dead of night.
Across the stream were flower seeds,
the rain came down like silver beads;
The lonely water then settled still
The see-through child set on the hill.
“It’s just like sleeping, ‘lone and still,
Unconscious but to look above,
Just as a pool of water does.
When the body turns to air,
The suffering of the soul at rest.
If you upon the myths rely,
You’ll drift just like the dragonfly,
From time to time for nothing—chance,
trapped inside the devil’s hands.

The Glass Umbrella, 2005


We are the footprints by the Sea.
The waters come,
and waters leave.
Miss Sea, you see,
your children taken;
Children of the Sea forsaken.

See me see Miss Galilee.
Bring back what she took from me;
bring back what you swallowed whole.
The yawning, old,
and wide mouthed urn,
lolled on, but never turned,
her deaf ear,
to me,
to hear,
my confused shouts at her.

Without a word at all to say,
she waves at the night and day.
She rolls about within a dream,
the carousel goes by overhead;
to it she turns her mirrored head.
She simply looks to it, and all,
and we, like leaves,
around her fall.

The beach we leave our footprints on,
The waters come,
and then they’re gone.
We are but footprints by the Sea;
The waves come in,
and then we leave.
Miss Sea, you see,
your children taken.
Children of the Sea forsaken.

Ancient sea, Miss Galilee,
can you see yourself in me?
As I see myself in you,
glowing white, and tinged with blue.
Can’t you see what you have done?
The lolling sea saw none.


“I see,” I said, and that was that;
standing at the shore of black.
I hear my own words echo back.
In those waters,
I saw me;
another reflection in the sea.

This was after ten years passed:
I returned, sat in the grass,
thinking of all who walked that shore.
Never did I see her face,
a glass umbrella had replaced,
the girl whom I adored.
My love would walk the shore no more.

But nothing else, and nothing more;
no more of who I once adored.
No more to God could I implore,
or to the umbrella in her stead.
The face of the mourning sun turned
the glass umbrella, from the sea,
rolled ashore and laughed at me.
Then I knew,
and saw it all,
inside the glass umbrella fall.
I saw myself again, alone,
forever by the Sea to roam.

On that day I watched her play,
with birds about the shore.
I heard her laugh and nothing more,
as the Sea,
came and took my love from me.
Buzzards circled overhead,
like nature’s garbage men.
I heard them call,
and heard her laugh,
and felt the kiss of Caiaphas.


A finch had washed up in her place,
from the well amid the waste—
who floundered by the Sea,
and then flew on.
The bird fluttered for a moment,
and was gone.

As beautiful as the Sea might be,
her own face she cannot see.
In my dreams, she comes to me,
and sees her picture on the wall.
By my family, and me,
a portrait of Miss Galilee.

As wondrous as she looks, at night,
shimmering with the silver light,
she looks sadder in the dawn.
When the sun shines in her face,
when daylight takes the nighttime’s place—
she yawns again, and sighs.
Children of the Sea walk home.
Deaf, Miss Galilee rolls on.

Earlier in my life, I went,
found a home which I could rent.
I called my child to say:
“Come see me, come see the sea;
we’ll have some lunch,
then get ice cream.
You have to come;
you have to see,
the face of lady Galilee.”


A while we stood,
where lolled the waves,
under a sky where seagulls played;
for her, my world, for once, to see,
the lovely face of Galilee.
From the waters, walked ashore,
played a while,
bonne nuit, amore.
She splashed about the waves, my
and then she splashed no more.

I remember she flew in.
We had some sandwiches, and then,
hand in hand walked with a grin.
She laughed the day away.
She wore a blue dress, made of lace,
and had a smile upon her face.
At night she walks my dreams this
for when she splashed,
that faithful day—
the Sea took her away.
The waters took my living dream,
and left me here to stay.

The Sea looked into me, you see,
and saw what she could take from me;
my dreams could not just let it be.
And when it looked, at me, it saw,
the same thing when it looks at all.
How could she tell me what she sees?
The way she sees us all go ’round,
she often speaks without a sound.
She sees us dance,
and hears us call,
all at once,
but not at all.
The glass umbrella falls.

We are the footprints by the Sea;
the waters come,
and waters leave.
Miss Sea, you see,
your children taken;
Children of the Sea forsaken.

Hitchhikers to Nirvana, 2004

He waited on the shore for her,
his thumb in the air.
Watching free birds,
bye, they fly,
and with the water’s lullaby,
kings and queens and pawns
walk on,
blind with outstretched arms,
their life long gone.

A man, a child, vague shapes, a blur,
stumble into Earth’s wide urn,
a place from which no one returns.
That caravan back to the sea,
the rats behind the piper sing in glee,
blind alone, behind the song,
the hopeless rats walk on.

Children of the Sea, soliloquy,
sonnet for the dead.
Faces in a mirror, first,
a portrait by the light rehearsed.
And at twilight, later that night,
they’re tucked away inside a box,
the procession of the lives, non stop:
one after another down the mount,
by Sisyphus and his stone, too gone;
a memory of slavery on his back,
when he went up, the stone went down,
and Sisyphus, alone on the mound,
casts a sour downward frown,
and sits to sob, and cry, lament,
another stone is by him sent.
Sisyphus shrugs,
and then says, “Bye,”
and goes.
For why no knows, and gone, like then,
each time a rock slides down again,
Sisyphus walks again.

Into an empty sea beyond,
that category gone,
the name of all our deeds,
the tome,
One Summer in the Sun,
in it our simple little songs,
of those who in despair still long,
for what they cannot reach,
the fear of death, cold on their feet,
never to act or cry;
and like Hamlet, all alone,
will sit and wonder why.

Perhaps one day I might go face,
Karma and her chalkboard and erase,
all our sins she’s penciled in,
so all hitchhikers can get in.
I’d cheat them all, on our behalf,
sneak into Heaven, lay back, laugh,
as the wicked, good, and bad,
laugh and love the same.
I’d take the slaves and make the way,
sneak convicts to Nirvana,
and when we’re there,
without a care,
we call can cry, ‘Hosanna!’



He waited on the shore a while,
while seagulls plucked the pearls.
The tide comes in, and once again,
he heard a laughing girl.
Glass shatters,
in reflection—

a sea of life in all directions:
birth and childhood, women too,
disappear into the blue,
urn of our mother, stole,
another down the memory hole,
Hitchhikers to Nirvana,
don’t always find the place.
If I could, I surely would,
take every child and parent there,
where they can sit, and laugh, and love,
forever without a care.

Vanessa’s butterflies,
one broken wing,
try to fly, but can’t;
they go in a desperate circle,
one wing beats against the ground.
When I saw that butterfly,
she sang without a sound;
to me she said, ‘Why do I have to die?’
and I said,
‘Because you live.
There is no why.
Now easy rest,
and shut those eyes.’

Old man, move on,
and just look through,
the prison bars that you call ‘you,’
and look outside, with happy stride,
look at the prisoners inside,
in love and lust and hate.
Karma’s divisions separate,
but in the end, they’re whole,
behold: the divine ratio:
One point six one eight,
oh three nine nine nine.
Eight eight seven,
on and on, a million dots—

infinity on the spot.


He stands on the shore once more,
and there appears a far-off-door—

a satin sheet, and blood-red, spread,
along the corridor,
and at the end, again, again,
God’s black limousine pulls in.
Roses are thrown along the carpet,
for him to walk.
Around the car Nobody’s talk.
‘He has returned,’ they say, and smile,
‘God is here again!
To save our souls,
erase our sins,
and stay for but a while!’

A long procession eulogy,
to the car on roses leads,
the open door, an old seat, empty,
a thousand peasants shout in frenzy.
Another man, another land,
to take his place, instead:
‘Alas, alas,’ they cry, at mass,
‘Our loving king is dead.’

The children and the parents cried,
as puddles in the sunlight dried,
and now another long lost face,
has on our Earth now been replaced,
for someone to sit.
By the time the good king died,
another waited,
to take his place, put on his suit,
loyal subjects to recruit.


He waited on the shore for her,
watching kings and queens and pawns,
walk on,
into the sea, their life long gone.
Into the Sea I visit, day and night,
so I might see the dead.
I see a girl, my childhood friend,
and sometimes I see my dad.
He tells me he forgives me.
I hang my head and sigh,
“There’s no need for you to cry.
Be who you are, and that’s enough.
If nothing else you can that trust”

His pardon won, now to lay door,
on its side, and in his stride,
he’ll smile forever more.
He sticks out his thumb,
just another bum—

another plaything in Samsara,
trying to Hitchhike to Nirvana.

Anathema, 2004

Lalala, a poem, a song,
another nothing along.
Lalala, to fret, hours,
forget away goes by the stage;
about despair that steals the air,
an elm tree eulogy,
phoned in an hour late.
The roots are gone, the hours gone,
no one is there to see.

Man and child both cold mild,
a seaside screaming both go round,
the glowing, the jazz like sounds,
thena, anathe,
it all goes by and once done dies,
unlike the urn-like sea,
around and around, fury sound,
of the screaming city.

Lalala, another song,
another dying sing along,
whose pages grey at ends and fray;
lalala, another frets,
wasted hours to beget,
away the hour on the stage,
that one might smile, to turn the page—
how free is a man in jail,
outside the jailbird sings,
his solitude now empty.
Outside looking through the bars,
whose drab grey rust blots out the stars—
of the screaming city.

Lalala, another verse of song,
with the vain hope you’ll sing along.
La, la sings the man, who frets,
his brief hour on the screen.
Waiting he with reserved glee,
that you if not somehow blue
intrigued might turn the page,
so if it matters, once again,
another free man dies imprisoned;
outside the jailbird sing,
outside looking in through bars,
which have at long last kill the stars.
When our hours, oh how brief,
are tradition of the day,
often read or watched instead,
moments go and go,
and seethe,
and the sun rise says repeat.

Silent Soliloquy, 2004

All the kings,
and all the kings men,
couldn’t put me together again.
There’s no such thing as Peter Pan,
and no such place as Neverland,
where children without worry play and sing.
That’s not the world—cruel maze,
with judgment it’s reward.
I hope they have a cell-phone in purgatory,
so I can call my mother,
high in Heaven,
and tell her I got what I deserved.

If only I could somehow see,
the Wizard of Oz for empathy,
the door at the end of the roadway
for me is closed;
no Neverland, no songs, no dance;
just God’s voice and his song.
And other men, like me, long gone,
silence is the only song,
whose high pitch is Eternal.

How beautiful is everything,
even lice and snakes,
devil in the mind is gone;
all is still, quiet,
the void,
silence, the only song,
on the jukebox, played by God,
and the man in boots,
a cowboy hat,
never runs out of change.
And the devil is the busboy,
at the bottom of the stairs,
whose intent is the will, the soul,
and how wayward with the hour goes;
a brief delay, this disillusion,
before the curtains close;
and the drapes, what light,
will of the night dispose—
leaving nothing but the Sun.

The Jaded Game, 2004

Cancelled eyes,
hide behind half sighs,
when people try to sort It out.
Hopeless meander’s got you down?
Pass through the Gates of No Where with a scream.
Sit behind the eyes; look at the screen.
The shopping spree begins—
sort out the dreams.

Pile all you can into a cart and smile.
The Jaded Game will last for but a while.
Or you can be a straw man cast by mold,
with The Philosopher’s Alibi Why you can behold,
the Glass Bead Game inside the skull,
where transparent abstractions you can mull, and become,
Rodin’s Thinking Man undone.

Look at me, and then yourself.
Feel the warmness of my breath.
The rhythm of my pulse,
flesh and blood like you.
In all important ways alike,
we are all the same.
We’re born and live and breathe, and die,
and play the Jaded Game.

The Lines, 2004

Take one look outside these lines,
where there is much to see.
All the beauty I have seen,
will pass me by as though a dream,
and here I stay, still locked away,
a prisoner of the lines.

And here I’ve been, for my whole life,
walking between the lines at night.
I’ve poured my mind into the lines,
and here I’m trapped, for you to see:
the beauty as revealed to me.
Here I’ll stay, still locked away,
inside the lines, not free.

Outside the lines are reasons but,
to fill the lines again.
And when I saw the world go by,
as lightning by me in the sky,
I had to grab my pen;
the beauty of the world, for me,
is a poem to begin.

Outside the lines, I live, and lie,
though while inside I do not die.
I walk under a poor description,
of the evening sky.

With nothing poetic in my way,
just one more of the endless days—
subtracted from our time to stay;
those lazy days, they go their way,
say, “hey,” and then say, “bye.”
They pass us by and hear our cry;
though never stop, nor wonder why.
In silence arrive, and in disguise,
say goodbyes and go their way.

“Hey,” they say, the eye that sees,
who translates our tragedies—
he who dictates, with a pen,
our glories, failures, virtues, sin—
reads it once or twice and then,
a second better draft begins.

Outside the lines I think of when,
and where I last lay down my pen,
to write away the eve;
then at night, by pale lamp light,
another verse of song I write.
Another song to sing, on page,
when outside no words convey,
how I was trapped in lines this way.

Outside the lines, I look, and see,
the ever incredulous skeptical me:
a young man awake too long,
at five a.m. he writes this song,
himself but twenty-three.

He writes before a court,
with a faceless judge and jury.
Perhaps he this believes;
he calculates the variables,
of approaching destinies.
And where he’ll be and what he’ll see,
and how he’ll write it down, to please,
those who can dismiss with ease,
all of his sublime melodies.

When he writes, it’s not for him,
no, not for him alone;
it is for those who stand around,
whose once long frown,
can with his verse turn upside down,
and be gladdened by his song.

Out of place, and out of time,
walks the man between the lines,
whose gold is never found in mines,
but in corridors of mind.
And at his core, his lonely own,
he only wants to sing a song.

To sing a song, and merry make,
those who from a poem might take,
joy and bliss, and sorrow too,
when they get trapped in these lines too.

A heartbeat skipped, I blinked, so my,
dreams are trapped inside the lines;
dreams are rendered lines again,
and all the words I wander in,
far off lands, fall into sand,
like Pompeii and Babylon,
the lines keep falling,
on and on.

The Sermon on the Screen, 2004

If Jesus came back, the whole world


they’d turn their backs, their lord forgotten.

Only the lepers, in their lair,

would crawl before him, show him care,

for whose tender hands could heal;

and once their skin was smooth again,

they’d run back to the hills.
Good luck next time, Jesus,

my friend.

They’ll never understand.

Good luck next time, little lamb,

when the whole world has you found;

I’ll see you when the trumpet sounds.
And when you come, say they can sin,

Say there are no rules.

Tell them they can lie and steal,

and go to Heaven, too.

Tell them that there is no hell,

therefore no need to fear.

Tell them that they all can make,

Heaven on Earth, right here;

no need to wait for paradise,

nor preachy prophet hear.


Better luck next time, my friend.

They just don’t understand—

the Sermon on the Mount, itself,

dissolved in priceless air,

That day ago, two thousand years,

words befell their deafened ears.

and then got worse for wear.

If you came back to Earth, today,

and wished for blind to see,

you couldn’t tell a parable,

on national T.V.  Better luck next time,

my friend.

Maybe they will see.

And hand in hand walk with you,

on the shores of Galilee.

In the times before you come,

I’ll do what I can do.

Just to fill the void you left,

I’ll write a sermon too.


Blessed are the blind,

for though they do not see,

they get to hear the sound of birds,

and feel a lukewarm sea.

Blessed are the deaf,

though symphonies hear none;

they still can share, and get to stare,

at the beauty of the sun.

Blessed are the ruined,

whose lives have gone awry;

for at one moment, in their life,

they smiled and watched the sky.

Blessed are the ones long dead,

their debts and troubles paid;

who suffer no more, the endless war,

at peace lay in a grave.

Blessed is a child in pain,

his fettered limbs,
and weakened state;

For soon he’ll see the majesty,

of Heaven’s golden gates.

Blessed are the dying men,

who all their long life gave,

to those in sin, again, again,

the Road to God is paved.

Blessed are the sufferers,

who shake all night and day,

because one day, come what may,

all their suffering goes away.


Perhaps one day, someone may find,

and read these sincere words of mine,

and to me say the same:

better luck next time, my friend,

there’s no need to explain.

Silence is the voice of God;

soon with no refrain.

The Variable Machine, 2004

The Variable Machine.
To turn it on, just press play.
What would you like to do today?
Be happy and successful, and serene?
Those days with what’s her face,
saved in the folder HAPPY PLACE.

Would you like to see your mother,
or your father, or some other?
A random face that you once saw?
File not found.
Would you like to see a friend,
some beginning or some end?
Dream a dream on the dream machine!
Or, let us choose for you.
For all the melancholic’s out there,
a misery machine is available too.

Forget your worries! Forget your fear!
An all new happy machine is here!
Select a glass of wine.
Know that you’re just a cog,
in the misery machine of mine.
Just a cog behind the screen,
sifting through vague probabilities,
Project the future!
Explore the past, with ease!

One moment here, perhaps?
And there?

Or a long nothing spent no where?


He’ll always be with you.

You can treat him as you wish,
and he will never betray:
get tired of him? Just press DELETE.
The prior man is obsolete!
Just press play.
Choose the words for him to say:
I love you and remember—
the way we used to play?
You can’t set a date for forever.

You can escape the Siren’s song,
but their silence, never.
You just have a fever.
We may be able to treat this.
Try to stay busy.
Don’t think about it.
We’ll do the worrying for you.

File not found.
Only syllables to express:
The only thing that means a thing,
is that which means itself.
synonym life.
And meaning is no cure.



File not found.

Every why expires,
as does every question asked.

Ouroboros, 2004

in collaboration with Cory Brock


Across a day lit ground divine,

sliding by, and makes no sound,

a serpent sent by time goes round.

Through windowsills and down dark


on the ceilings, on the walls—

on the lamps, and in the attic,

a hiss the sound of TV static,
As by it goes, it’s fluid motion.

Ouroboros eats itself, and chokes,

and the serpent’s time revoke,

left to circle in its head,

with no more day lit ground, instead,

the serpent grows two legs, and stands,

on two feet, so he can greet,

life’s phantom caravan.


The taste of fear, and long held dreams,

digested turns to nightmare screams.

The monster in all closets,

live inside our head.

He’s there for life, and whispers fright,

his purpose nothing else;

the monster in the closet is the self.

The Illegitimate Sons, 2004




The Illegitimate Suns,

who shined,

with no one there to see.

Though now at last,

it has come to pass,

all we need is we.


Dad, it’s me, the bastard child—

the one you threw away.

Your illegitimate suffering son,

whose life, at times, has come undone.

Enough about me, how about you?

What dreadful things are you up to?

So dad, instead, how was your day?

No calls, because, you’re going through,

more lies devised, for moms like mine,

whose child from you, they always hide, but why?

All your life has been a lie.


The flower was enough, I guess;

forget the seed; forget the rest.

Isn’t that what you do best?

Forget it all, and easy, rest.

while those you spurned,

will toss and turn,

unable to sleep, and scream,

again they wake from fitful dreams.

Thinking when, and thinking where,

went the man who wasn’t there.


Well, how am I? I guess—it’s tough.

Pills and poems are not enough,
for me to beat, relax, repeat,

insomnia, anxiety,

whose effects have taken hold,

and keeps me confined in a hole.

Writing, drawing, this, and that.

Stress, duress, panic attacks.

The world comes through in narrow cracks.

As though I have lost control,

I write controlled by vertigo.

Though not that you would even know.

Not that you would know,

or care—

you faceless man who isn’t there.

The Illegitimate Suns,

who shined,

with no one there to see.

Though now at last,

it has come to pass,

all we need is we.




Look at what you’ve done to me:

nineteen years old with anxiety.

Insomnia too, what did I do?

For you to abandon me?

When I look back I don’t see your care,

but my brother was always there.

You never came to visit,

or came by.

I lay in bed and wonder why—

it bothers me, though I don’t cry.

Next time I see him—

it’s murder with an alibi.
And on that day I’ll finally rest,

without this burden in my chest.

I became talented without you,

with meth on your brain with nothing to do.

You have five or six other children too,
and none of them want to even know you.

Don’t try to take credit for me being your son,

because what I am is nothing you’ve done.

You could’ve came and could’ve cared.

You’re just a man who isn’t there;

and now I’ve learned, and now I see,

the misery that you gave me.

So next time be a man and care,

instead of a man who wasn’t there.


And all we need is we.

That’s how it’s supposed to be

All three of you, and you know who—

who it is I’m talking to:

two Aquarius’s, and a Gemini too.

I would not trade a one for you.

Hey there “dad,”

Why do you look like that?

A miserable meth head with a cowboy hat!
That’s okay though;

I don’t need you.

I hope I don’t turn out to be like you—
a meth head nobody without a clue.

The man who wasn’t there is you.

And now I’m done;
I’m not your son,

and I don’t even care.

Happy just because,
you were never there
The Illegitimate Suns,

who shined,

a few finally came to see.

Though now at last,

it has come to pass,

all we need is we.

Looking for God on Google, 2004

Today I looked for God on Google,

a million pages,

all directions:

the Hubble Deep Field,

and the Mandelbrot’s.

Einstein’s elegant equations.


A page says, “Zed squared equals Alpha.”

I don’t know what this means.

Another page talks about time.

Can God be found on Google?

That’s a question of mine.

There’s food and jewels,

virtue and vice,

but no voice of God.


There’s entertainment, news,

products, food,

God is lost amongst the ads.

When I looked for God on Google,

I searched five million pages,

but didn’t see a God on one.

Some believed.

Some did not.

Some don’t even care.


Today I lost again,

in the ultimate game of hide and seek.

Maybe I’m not supposed to look.

Maybe nothing’s hiding.

Maybe the last thing people notice is

something that isn’t hidden.

A Tale of Two Anxieties, 2003

A Tale of Two Anxieties,
in collaboration with Kyle Nobles



Sit back and let the panic sink in.
It’s you I’ve chosen to befriend.
I will stay here,
and never leave you alone.
‘Cause deep within your mind I belong.

I will never surprise you, nor let you down.
Hey, let’s turn that smile on your face upside down.
I’m trapped inside your stomach;
hear me cry.
For I will be with you,
until the day that you die.

I will cause you untold pain,
Okay, say it slowly, my name:
as you call me.
I’m everything negative, please believe.
Take a pill, and try to relax.
I’m gone for now,
but I’ll be back.

Please, oh please, Anxiety,
please, oh please, let go of me.
I’m not at all what you’ve made me.
If you had eyes I’m sure you’d see—
all the pain you’ve given me.

It’s a fight that you can’t win;
my friend Benzo shows the end.
I’m sorry, now,
for it’s too late.
If you could stop me—how?
You’re in the past,
and now, at last,
I have no worries now.

The chains are broken.
This I’ve found:
life is good; you’re not around.
If life’s a joke, then I’m the clown.

So turn around and go your way.
I’ll deal with you some other day.
So now that you’ve let go of me,
rest in peace, AN-XI-ETY.



Knock, knock!
“Who’s there?”
Trick or treat or misery?

Have some more pain in your chest.
Don’t even dare to try to rest.
You can’t relax.
You can’t feel safe.
Put a gun to your face.

That’ll keep me out.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You’ll try to run,
and scream, and shout.
A thousand pills won’t drown me out.
So down them now, and there, relax,
but they’ll wear off,
and I’ll be back.



Anxiety, anxiety,
why do you pull and squeeze on me?
What have I done so wrong?
Some past mistake?
No, hold on;
I’ll worry all night long,
the voices that inside me shout.

About this and about that,
and in my head I see a shore.
With blind men running,
crying, blind;
anxiety’s not far behind.
And not too far ahead,
I see—
a downpour of misery.

Anxiety now pulls the strings;
like I’m another puppet thing.
With dull scissors,
that cannot cut—
the controlling strings around me,
Benzos again, my yellow friends,
know how to shut you up.

I find remorse, alone at its source,
and that I wish to drown.
And when I’m there, without a care,
I’ll jump up and down.
Until at last, you’re in the past,
and cannot make not a sound.



You thought I left,

But you were wrong.
A broken record,
same ‘ol song!
I am back,
stronger than ever.
I flatter myself; I’m so clever.
You thought that I would go away?
Ha! I’m back,
and here to stay!
So go ahead and have your say!


That’s how it is,
and how it stays.
As you’ve requested,
here’s my say:
This mental battle ends today.

I’ve been in a three round fight,
with you, my mental parasite.
What is there left for me now?
Take more pills and then lay down?
I feel it now, a great relief,
without your tightening grip ‘round me.

I’ll lay down,
and get some sleep;
‘cause I’ll be ready,
next time we meet.



Thought you had eluded me?
Not so, my slave,
now you behave.
Just kick your legs;
rock back and forth.
You can’t outrun your mind,
the source.

The source is me, inside your head.
I’m what you fight when you’re in bed;
the source of pain, the source of grief,
I’ll leave you shaking like a leaf!

Eat some pills, and block me out,
but once they fade, again, I sprout,
I’m back again!

So try to run,
and try to hide!
You can’t outrun what’s trapped inside;
this beautiful misery will never subside.
I’m in your mind, and now it’s mine;
I’ll bounce inside your head and try,
to drive you MAD BEFORE YOU DIE.

I’ll eat you from the inside out.
Go on scream.

Go on shout.
A thousand tears won’t drown me out.

Cry, and hide!
What can you do—
with my invisible hands on you?


I’ve danced with you for ten years now,
and I’ve survived,
some way, somehow.
But now I must move on.
I’ll write some books,
I’ll write some songs,
some melancholy sing alongs.
And you will be there, on your own,
there in the past, to stay, at last,
not in my chest, restricting breath,
trying to choke me until death.
Now I am free,
with your hands off me.
Goodbye old friend, Anxiety.

Daphne Turns to Leaves, 2003

We form like seeds, flower on trees,

fall and drift amid the breeze.

Then father time, life’s anodyne,

rakes us in a pile like leaves.

Gathered together, on the shore,

the tide rolls in, goodnight amore.


Behind the piper, singing in key,

hand in hand, a caravan,

in a line back to the sea.

Hand in hand, back to the land,

to eat, and laugh, and play.

Pulled at night by lighthouse light,

that disappears by day.


Each lost ship sails, and tell their tales,

about the Justice of the Sun.

Some watch the waves, with dull amaze,

and others watch the sky.

Some count the days, as Karma plays;

some struggle with a word called why.