If you're cold,
you hold her
and her ever-flowing soul will warm you.
Her body fits against yours
and you
melt into each other,
become each other.
If you caress her softly,
she'll sing for you.
The more you give to her,
the more she will return.
She will be your voice in the darkness.
She will speak for you if you go mute.
Your passion will become
her passion;
and she will portray
every strum of your heartbeat
with just as much enthusiasm,
just as much vigor.
She will cry if you cry for her;
she will wail her emotions disguised as your own
and together you will bring down walls,
defeat armies,
making them weep where they stand,
fall to their knees
and see the beauty that is
your music.
For, her language is one of passion, fury,
and love.
If you learn it
and ask the right questions,
she will ease your pain
and show you the answers you long for.
With your gentle caress,
her voice will rise to the sky
so pure and light a king would bow.
With your hands on her neck
she will come alive
and you will feel her trembling.
Her shivers will send themselves
down your spine.
You will never fret,
never fear
when she is by your side;
for, when she rests against you,
you are brave:
calloused against the harsh blisters of words,
enveloped in your duet.
Your soul echoes in her core and,
hollow though she may be,
she fills the emptiness within yourself.
She is forever yours,
and she is forever singing.
Ratiug
Written Florida 2005
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Beacon of Brilliance- Reading
There's a light you can see
in the distance at night
when all the power is off;
and it shines with a passion
in it's glorious flight.
This beam
is a beacon of brilliance.
Now I travelled the world
for a hundred long years
to find the source of this brilliant sight,
and I fought my way through
equal measure of fears
for this beam,
this beacon of brilliance.
A mirror, I found,
upon which I glanced,
there to find a stone-carved inscription:
"Many toils you have challenged
and dangers you've chanced
to find yourself,
a beacon of brilliance."
Written Florida 2006
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
I am Fish- Reading
I am Fish.
I remember happy fish days;
swimming through coral country sides
turning weightless in crossing currents.
-When I was a small fry,
no bigger than a tadpole
on the banks of a steady trickling stream,
my brothers and sisters in fins
told strange tales of monsters above
the water line,
big fingered brutes which carried
sharp hooks to pierce our throats
and sharp knives to slice our bellies.
We jump at every shadow still.
This, my fish life, flashes before my fish eyes
as all of my pond dreams
pop like brook bubbles,
tentative and precious.
I am Fish,
and I am beached, askance,
and my body is heavy.
I feel the weight of a fin
is the same as a boulder
and my bits above me crush down
on my bits below,
and out of the glaring bulb light
rises, silhouetted, a great monster form.
I have nothing left, suddenly.
I gasp for water, marooned on this
forsaken land mass.
I sputter. I wheeze.
My vision goes blurry,
my head feels spinning,
and there looms the monster.
In this terrible moment of hope,
I know, for just this moment, exactly what and who I am.
I am Fish.

Written Massachusettes 2012, Photo Colorado 2010
November Ninth- Reading
I wrote this poem for Richie Santos, and for my Uncle John, and for everyone else who has left us.
Listen, friends, for the groaning and the turning of the earth. <3
Written Washington 11/10/11
Listen, friends, for the groaning and the turning of the earth. <3
Written Washington 11/10/11
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Fight For Me- Reading
I think you should fight for me.
I'm not very good at this.
I'm going to make mistakes-
say the wrong thing,
do the wrong thing.
Like I might,
hypothetically,
sleep with your best friend in a misguided attempt to get to know you better...
but not in a slutty way or anything!
In my defense
I met you both at the same time
and he made a move first
and I didn't know either one of you well enough
to know that it was you that I needed.
It was you.
It was always you...
And I think you should fight for me.
And just because I'm sleeping with him hypothetically
doesn't mean I don't need you,
in fact I'll stop
right now!
I don't think he's that serious about me anyway.
And even if he was
it wouldn't be fair to him
for me to want you so badly
like I do.
And I think,
if you fought for me,
I'd probably let you win.
I mean, that's probably why I move around so often anyway.
It's not to get away, really,
but to see what will happen
when I say goodbye;
if someone will stand up
and speak out
and ask me to stay.
And no one's ever asked me to stay before...
And I think you should fight for me, damn it!
...Because I fall
into your eyes
every time you look at me.
And my heart does that stupid
fluttery thing
every time I think about you...
And I know you have a history,
but you know what?
So do I.
And mine is chalk-full of people who wanted someone
else
the entire time
and now the tables have turned
and I want you
and the only thing I need
in order to start fighting for you
and to keep fighting for you
until the breath
leaves
my
body
is for you
to fight
for me
just...
just a little bit.
And I think you should fight for me
because no one has ever fought for me before
and the heart fluttering
and the stomach knotting
and the nervous
giggling,
that just doesn't happen
...like
ever!
And I think it's something to fight for...
And I think you should fight
for me.
Written Washington 2011
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Dear Diamond Friend- Reading
For Julz
I think they messed up with you;
not intentionally, of course.
But I think,
when they slice-cut you open
and stitch-sewed you shut
to stuff in slimy new organs
like cogs in a robot-
turning together
to churn up your steam
and pump out your life-cry,
to raise up your arms
and crash down your legs
to turn you in circles
like jewels are supposed to
to make the light bend
into ten billion colours
to blind all tue bystanders
and bring down the stars-
I said to bring down the stars
themselves
for your red carpet trodding on...
I think when they did this,
they messed up.
Because you shine like you're supposed to,
and you're turning in circles,
and you fly,
and you're flying;
but every so often
for some fleeting reason,
you skip like a favourite CD.
You sputter.
You cough.
So they drag you back in
to patch you back up,
and they try,
I know they're trying...
But rubies like you were not meant for aching!
Rubies like you should be gleaming!
Giving!
Love-cry lifting!
Living their glorious lives!
Not lying faded on hospital beds.
See, I think
when they slice-cut you open
and stitch-sewed you shut
to stuff in new kidneys
and patch your veins up
they forgot
that you needed
more hearts.
I think your real problem is
that you've got so much love;
that as much as you give it,
it comes back redoubled
and it's bursting you open at those
stitch-seams of yours.
My dear diamond friend,
you are love embodied!
... But it's so hard
for a one-heart body
to hold that much love.
You tell them I say so.
And you tell them to fix it,
because I just can't help
but to constantly, Love,
send you more.
I think they messed up with you;
not intentionally, of course.
But I think,
when they slice-cut you open
and stitch-sewed you shut
to stuff in slimy new organs
like cogs in a robot-
turning together
to churn up your steam
and pump out your life-cry,
to raise up your arms
and crash down your legs
to turn you in circles
like jewels are supposed to
to make the light bend
into ten billion colours
to blind all tue bystanders
and bring down the stars-
I said to bring down the stars
themselves
for your red carpet trodding on...
I think when they did this,
they messed up.
Because you shine like you're supposed to,
and you're turning in circles,
and you fly,
and you're flying;
but every so often
for some fleeting reason,
you skip like a favourite CD.
You sputter.
You cough.
So they drag you back in
to patch you back up,
and they try,
I know they're trying...
But rubies like you were not meant for aching!
Rubies like you should be gleaming!
Giving!
Love-cry lifting!
Living their glorious lives!
Not lying faded on hospital beds.
See, I think
when they slice-cut you open
and stitch-sewed you shut
to stuff in new kidneys
and patch your veins up
they forgot
that you needed
more hearts.
I think your real problem is
that you've got so much love;
that as much as you give it,
it comes back redoubled
and it's bursting you open at those
stitch-seams of yours.
My dear diamond friend,
you are love embodied!
... But it's so hard
for a one-heart body
to hold that much love.
You tell them I say so.
And you tell them to fix it,
because I just can't help
but to constantly, Love,
send you more.
Shadows
So the shadows read their scripts
and play their parts along the walls
to the beat of the creaking of the settling house
and the melody of the howling of the wind
through the branches of the trees outside
and
they have you thinking
they're not what your heart knows they really are...
So when the lump
rises
at the back of your throat
when you're at home
alone
at night;
and you suppress the
foolishness
in the back of your mind,
the shadows
smile
and continue dancing.
They'll have you soon enough...
and play their parts along the walls
to the beat of the creaking of the settling house
and the melody of the howling of the wind
through the branches of the trees outside
and
they have you thinking
they're not what your heart knows they really are...
So when the lump
rises
at the back of your throat
when you're at home
alone
at night;
and you suppress the
foolishness
in the back of your mind,
the shadows
smile
and continue dancing.
They'll have you soon enough...
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
November Ninth
Long before the dawn,
in the darkest part of night,
the buildings downtown were burning.
We stood,
buckets in hand
watching the blazing inferno's churning
and we were helpless.
And far away,
you...
You lost your faith in the rotation of the earth.
You convinced yourself the morning would never come.
And so, with perpetual darkness looming over your weary head,
you left us.
You thought you'd never see the sun again.
You left us.
You thought you'd never hear the birds.
You left us.
You didn't even say goodbye.
But oh! My friend!
If you'd steadied your heart for just a few hours more;
if you'd looked a little harder for the lights on the horizon;
if you'd listened a little harder
for the groaning
and the turning
of the earth...
And so the sun rose cold.
And so we stood around the smoldering coals,
our empty useless buckets rolling in the chilly breeze.
We locked fingers
and turned, silhouetted, to greet the dawn.
And far away your mother sat weeping
and you were gone.
in the darkest part of night,
the buildings downtown were burning.
We stood,
buckets in hand
watching the blazing inferno's churning
and we were helpless.
And far away,
you...
You lost your faith in the rotation of the earth.
You convinced yourself the morning would never come.
And so, with perpetual darkness looming over your weary head,
you left us.
You thought you'd never see the sun again.
You left us.
You thought you'd never hear the birds.
You left us.
You didn't even say goodbye.
But oh! My friend!
If you'd steadied your heart for just a few hours more;
if you'd looked a little harder for the lights on the horizon;
if you'd listened a little harder
for the groaning
and the turning
of the earth...
And so the sun rose cold.
And so we stood around the smoldering coals,
our empty useless buckets rolling in the chilly breeze.
We locked fingers
and turned, silhouetted, to greet the dawn.
And far away your mother sat weeping
and you were gone.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Recording
I want to post videos of my guitar playing, but I had forgotten how difficult it is to record music. I have no music editing software, so I have to get it right all in one go... which is ridiculous. Often I find myself four minutes into recording, everything going smoothly, then I mess up something simple. Then I have to start over. Again. And again. And again.
So far, all I've really compiled is a series of expressions I throw at the camera after each mistake. I've documented them for posterity.






So far, all I've really compiled is a series of expressions I throw at the camera after each mistake. I've documented them for posterity.
Fog Shadow
Crisp sweet, like honeydew,
you cling to my tongue.
I breathe you in,
fog shadow
on cool summer nights
outside coffee shops where
hep cats
get their me-ows
in the moonlight.
You mark me-
fingertip to stainless steel,
a stain with a story.
Salacious.
Capricious.
You amuse me.
You move me to make movements which
otherwise would have left stones un-turned.
You are roses that burn in the sunrise
mimicking the morning sky
mocking the moon.
You are June,
and you slip down my skin
like sweat silver.
You’re a sliver of glitter
clinging to my morning neck.
You are heat on my breath-
when you leave
I have nothing left.

Written Ottawa 2012, Photo North Carolina 2010
you cling to my tongue.
I breathe you in,
fog shadow
on cool summer nights
outside coffee shops where
hep cats
get their me-ows
in the moonlight.
You mark me-
fingertip to stainless steel,
a stain with a story.
Salacious.
Capricious.
You amuse me.
You move me to make movements which
otherwise would have left stones un-turned.
You are roses that burn in the sunrise
mimicking the morning sky
mocking the moon.
You are June,
and you slip down my skin
like sweat silver.
You’re a sliver of glitter
clinging to my morning neck.
You are heat on my breath-
when you leave
I have nothing left.
Written Ottawa 2012, Photo North Carolina 2010
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Sway- Reading
So you stare
and she cannot look away;
and you, together,
stand and sway
and are utterly captivated
for a moment
by the moment
as you utter your own hearts' croons.
And you and she
captivate
me.
And I don't understand
how that passion
and that love
could not exist between you and her
at every moment
of your lives
together and apart...
and I want
so desperately
what you have
at that moment:
as you stare
and she cannot look away.
Could we
stand
and sway?
Saturday, February 4, 2012
-
There are lights on the horizon and they rise like -
And the frosty golden haze hangs.
And bridges passing are back-lit by streetlights:
reflecting and refracting through low lying clouds,
clinging to the night like -
And you are so -
And taillights which make no pop as they go pop out of existence
go pop out of existence up ahead anyway
disappearing in the mist like -
And it's 6am
and it smells like cows
and it feels like home,
like home,
like I want to come back here,
like I don't want to leave...
like I enjoy lying to myself in the early morning,
when really, I know I have moves left to make,
but right now I am so -
I'm just so -
Written Washington 2011, Photo Virginia 2009
Going
A piece of paper
with scribbled words
stares at me from its pedestal
like the dishes from the counter:
expectantly.
'Give me words;
make them dance.
Now's your time;
here's your chance
to make me stay,
make me sway.
Make them heard.
Give me words,
words,
more words!' it nags,
and yes,
yes,
I will.
Now, I do not profess to be prolific in prose,
so let's call this
a paragraph.
Annunciation is key,
motivation is lacking,
and I
am
suffocating!
So I'm going.
Don't say no...
I'm going.
Do not allude to your amusement
at me and my eager emancipation.
Just putter through your hallways
because they're calmer than your mind,
while I fly fearlessly forward for what awaits:
my destiny!
My fate!
In me lies a passion not easily cast aside,
a dream,
a scheme to get my way,
a map of my road not yet traveled,
a knot to every loose thread threatening to unravel,
a blunt determination
inextinguishable,
unfathomable,
unyielding to incessant degradation,
to the phonetic pronunciation of all my faults,
my ineptitudes,
what I fear you might
just
see...
Do not try to dis-courage,
for I have none for you to ravage.
I will not go in spite of you!
But with spite
for every insult,
every assault on my own vernacular,
every spectacular failure I managed to accomplish
and never let myself forget.
With spite, you see,
for me,
or for who I used to be,
the old me:
she who sat with open hands
and empty eyes.
She will see
once and for all
who I have become:
how I make thunder with my hands and feet
and create worlds,
worlds I say!
with my words.
Don't say I can't do this...
I've said it often enough.
I now know I can,
I am sure of it.
Imperfect,
but worth it,
I'm going.
Florida 2008
with scribbled words
stares at me from its pedestal
like the dishes from the counter:
expectantly.
'Give me words;
make them dance.
Now's your time;
here's your chance
to make me stay,
make me sway.
Make them heard.
Give me words,
words,
more words!' it nags,
and yes,
yes,
I will.
Now, I do not profess to be prolific in prose,
so let's call this
a paragraph.
Annunciation is key,
motivation is lacking,
and I
am
suffocating!
So I'm going.
Don't say no...
I'm going.
Do not allude to your amusement
at me and my eager emancipation.
Just putter through your hallways
because they're calmer than your mind,
while I fly fearlessly forward for what awaits:
my destiny!
My fate!
In me lies a passion not easily cast aside,
a dream,
a scheme to get my way,
a map of my road not yet traveled,
a knot to every loose thread threatening to unravel,
a blunt determination
inextinguishable,
unfathomable,
unyielding to incessant degradation,
to the phonetic pronunciation of all my faults,
my ineptitudes,
what I fear you might
just
see...
Do not try to dis-courage,
for I have none for you to ravage.
I will not go in spite of you!
But with spite
for every insult,
every assault on my own vernacular,
every spectacular failure I managed to accomplish
and never let myself forget.
With spite, you see,
for me,
or for who I used to be,
the old me:
she who sat with open hands
and empty eyes.
She will see
once and for all
who I have become:
how I make thunder with my hands and feet
and create worlds,
worlds I say!
with my words.
Don't say I can't do this...
I've said it often enough.
I now know I can,
I am sure of it.
Imperfect,
but worth it,
I'm going.
Florida 2008
Friday, February 3, 2012
Northbound
The gentle patter of the heavy snow flakes on the ceiling.
Cranes swirling as I breathe the crisp night air.
And I know I am in this moment.
"Love is never wasted."
Cranes swirling as I breathe the crisp night air.
And I know I am in this moment.
"Love is never wasted."
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Passion Poem
There is
a subtle smooth poetry,
an innocence,
a decadence,
an ever ebbing emptiness,
and overwhelming happiness
now.
The past,
at last,
is just the past:
a cast of calloused
and dastardly passions-
enraptured,
plastered behind our masked madness
and at last,
at last,
At Last
you have come along
to mollify my mildly maniacal madness
and move me
to monumental new mountains,
and maybe,
just maybe,
there will be
more.
See I want
Words
more than
Air.
I want poetry in every day.
Give me
a conversation with a total stranger,
a lecture,
alliteration!
Mmm, yes.
A silky smooth set of syllables
structured side by side
to soothe my senses!
Give me words...
and rhythm!
Give me a theme song
with a beat I can move to
and words I can groove to.
Play it for me once a day
(sometimes twice)
and I am satiated.
September bleeds,
does it?
Well then, so do I
for beat
and rhyme and,
speak slowly if you must.
Just give
me
words.
a subtle smooth poetry,
an innocence,
a decadence,
an ever ebbing emptiness,
and overwhelming happiness
now.
The past,
at last,
is just the past:
a cast of calloused
and dastardly passions-
enraptured,
plastered behind our masked madness
and at last,
at last,
At Last
you have come along
to mollify my mildly maniacal madness
and move me
to monumental new mountains,
and maybe,
just maybe,
there will be
more.
See I want
Words
more than
Air.
I want poetry in every day.
Give me
a conversation with a total stranger,
a lecture,
alliteration!
Mmm, yes.
A silky smooth set of syllables
structured side by side
to soothe my senses!
Give me words...
and rhythm!
Give me a theme song
with a beat I can move to
and words I can groove to.
Play it for me once a day
(sometimes twice)
and I am satiated.
September bleeds,
does it?
Well then, so do I
for beat
and rhyme and,
speak slowly if you must.
Just give
me
words.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
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