First New Poetry I've Written in 8 years! New book coming soon!



The glistening dead do not shout.

Instead they preach:

"We are on the boat now. You are on the island."


When I was young

we used to pluck the cicada shells from the trees,

they were like ghosts


from castles of dimly irascible futures.


That is,

if insects can be irascible,

can be anything,

in their regimented climb towards death.


We mastered useless sarcasm while the world peeled itself.


 Since then, I have found a sort of valiant repose,

shambling in my bed towards the psychotic weapon of dawn.

I do not shout, and I do not preach.

My cunning achievements

of poorly spent days and nights

walk beneath the soil of constant hours.


Infamous wretch,

known only as my eyes,

I find the space within space

and plummet towards cold plastic valleys

in the streets of science fiction cities.


The diamond of this body

is unconscionably worn around the neck of God.


He - or she - has fashioned archipelagos of jewelry

plucked from the fluid of time.


But me?

I am trapped on a clever atoll,


and relieved.