I've lost my voice as a writer ( Read more... )

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond ( Read more... )

I've been longing for the ocean.
To take a bus somewhere,
sleep alone in a hotel room
walk different lit streets
and drink in bars with
different newspapers.

I lost twelve hours to your arms ( Read more... )

In the quietest part of night ( Read more... )

I'm reworking old poems into work I can tolerate reading now ( Read more... )

while smoking in silence,
pink daisies lit softly
by street lamps slipping
into the edge of my
unfocused gaze,
I was struck
by the inevitabilities
of the fine, fucked,
forged self.
The garbage truck
whined and clanged
high and loud,
having to remove
the waste.

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our bodies self destruct
so in a way it seems only
natural we should be a little
emotively self destructive too.
even if I'm not just a little
self destructive. 

That which doesn't kill you
makes you want to die.