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.


I looked inside myself
And I saw a hollow moon
It had no mysticism to sanctify it
No rabbit, no man, no virgin connotations
No small steps toward mundial gravitas.
I forgive it; it’s not actually Luna,
Coming from me.
It’s just the stony reminder
Brought back in the back of Apollo’s
Shining projectile
That human tenderness, when dried,
Is dust
We come from stones and oceans
But we immolate in a flash
And ashes to dust is our fate.
I forgive the fact,
As we should all imperfect miracles.
So my little moon stays
Within me and my orbit
And hollowly awaits the sanctification
I can never give it.

Blood Rust (24/04/17)

There is no magnetism to our blood,
The red-pumped rust that
Airs our organs, bones and flesh
That subordinates us to the Gods,
Who Do Not Bleed.
We cannot attract the way
Metals do to due North;
We do not even possess the bear’s inheritance
To return to territories for birth and death,
To be drawn doubtless toward home.

No, our blood does not attract,
But we do. Not base metals perhaps,
But opposites, devotion, heavy-lidded lonely eyes,
And inevitably, decay;
For we are born iron oxide,
And that is just rust.

Licorice (23/04/17)

I waited for the word to come
And I think it’s come at last;
The word that fits the present time—
Well, to speak it makes me sad.

I cannot say what’s coming next,
I cannot stand what’s passed,
But in the hollow present time
The sweetness makes me sad.

Farewells taste like licorice:
They have a bitter cast,
Though doubtless we will meet again,
The parting makes me sad.

Remember, in your future joy
The sorrows you surpassed.
This bitterness will pass away,
And remember on that coming day
These times that made us, and be glad.


An ornamental rose
Smells empty
But familiar in its
Botanical purity;
A sweatless, grassy,
Fresh-air familiarity,
With the hint of aloofness
You pay the florist for.
Roses that smell sweet
Tend to breed wilder,
Less refined,
And call it what you will
But I’m not sure it’s
A compliment.

Really, we should leave
Flowers out of interpersonal
Fantasies, flowers never
Lie, and a rose never
Sacrificed its own beauty
For an ideal. Or maybe it’s a symptom
Of Modernity
That even the scent of roses
Smacks of apathy.


Cotton balls in corners
Glued like snowflakes
To the paint
Rip them off
Expose the plaster
Still it looks like winter:
The ruin of a pretty thing.

Cotton balls in pockets
Where squirrels keep their treasures
Where woodland denizens put hits
On the hunter
A deer head in the bed of roses
Like Don Acorneone.

Cotton balls in cheeks
To wipe off your eyes before bedtime
Don’t swallow
They’ll get lost in there
And your fake machismo
Will soften a truer death.

Stick them in corners
And they’ll look like snow
Stick them in circles
And they’ll resemble
The countless snowmen
You couldn’t roll
From the mud.