Perhaps Giordano Bruno’s
Endless wandering was
Madness or maybe
His ashes found in eternity
The Fields of Elysium.
They must exist somewhere
But whether they’re our due
Is a different question.
For now, I wonder
How many heretics
Due wreaths of laurel
Have burned in
Floral fields
For preaching the
Greatness of God,
His mercy’s boundless scope?



Angels have six limbs
One to bless
One for might
Two for flight
And two for dancing
In groundless delight.


Romulus surveyed Remus
The Wolf-suckled grave diggers
Standing spade by spade
Blades sunk in the ground.
The sun-tough corpse
Of the she-wolf lay
Bare carrion by them;
They broke the clay to
Bury what had
Needed To Be Done.
So many birds
So many hills
But in The End
What kills is what
You were when Necessity
Caught you. The Rise and
Fall of many tides is
Time; but in time nothing’s
left at all.


Today while I was walking I saw
Two ripped-off wings
Strewn on the asphalt
Like imperfections in the paving
Being pecked at by sparrows
Valiant with the greater having been
Laid to waste
Taken away by
One of the devouring mouths
Of time.
The saddest part was
The wings were still good
And I wonder why that poor pigeon
Chose to fly to death.
Perhaps quick
He was not quick enough.


Do you ever notice
What your face feels like
Clinging to your skull
Like a frightened identity?
Sometimes I try to imagine my expression
As it looks to another person
Through the sensation of
The furrow of my brows,
The grip of my jaw
Hinging on anxiety.
It’s impossible to express
Even on a face
The feeling of being
Behind it.
The feeling of its
The pain of its sight.
I can hear without bias,
But I cannot listen neutrally.
They say to live not just above the neck
But above the neck is where the wreck
Of expression originates.
It’s truly a natural disaster,
The face that we cannot see ourselves without aid,
An ambassador we can only influence
All this being said, I won’t apologize
For my resting expression
Of indifference.


Standards of beauty
At Appalachian heights
And a bed I can’t reach sleep in
I try to sleep in past the doubts
About Mortality
But they wake me up
With stomach flipping punctuality:
After all, doesn’t Death
Wait for Nobody?
I think about growing old
I think about infancy
Mine and my children’s
But I always remember
That there’s no guarantee
Never in this life,
Even beauty is subjective
And, like the atomies that construct us,
Our lives are governed by relativity.
The proportion of neurosis to dreaming
Dictates the perceived length of night
And perhaps, the perceived length of life—
Before I uncover more in this vein,
I’ll go back to bemoaning and doting
Upon beauty; at least, quick or dead, the pretty can sleep.