human rose

Image result for dandelion

human rose nonpareil

sweetness beauty’s appetite

rain in warm season

dandelions sprouting now

petal resting amid ashes



the city of the forgotten

the city of the forgotten

the city of snow

rests upon the shores of lethe

the city of slumber

where old women brush their white

hair where friends leave them in sorrow

at the museum

Pieter Bruegel the Elder - Hunters in the Snow (Winter) - Google Art Project.jpg

at the museum

he enters the foyer assailed by the scent of lemons and the ghosts of dead artilleryman who wander the halls in search of a warm body for their stories to inhabit. they are obsessed by their death, consumed by it. how does one express the inexplicable sorrow of somersaulting from a high turret after a bullet pierces an artery while one’s last breath is spent inhaling the thick fog of gunsmoke? they reach for the man, but he is wrapped in the scarves of silence, suffocating beneath the heavy boot of soullessness. for the duration, he stares at bruegel’s hunters, enraptured by the idea of snow, which is altogether more tangible than the material itself, being only a white substance causing numbness to the naked hand. he cannot help but think how indebted we are to symbols, and how even the most illuminating symbols, products of immaculate paintings and poems of precise and vivid language are mere shades and paltry colors. he does the math of metaphysics, reaching each painstaking sum on his chubby fingers. to this day he is still counting.


the flies are falling


in paris,

phnom penh, and

portugal, in brussels

the buds of their loaded deaths

are sprouting.


they are sri lankan lotuses

bearing tiny barrels of rain

on their backs. even persephone

in her hall of ice swats

one as it perches

on her lopsided left earlobe.

masters of war

Image result for end landmines

masters of war


with bent wing


on a desert


slender legs


aluminum cans


billowing in the wind

a tattered banner


from caput

battered and desolate

amid the devices

of war, ponderous

metal beams

and computerized


crimson rose

red as a communist


shrapnel of stars


the head of this



sunset uninterrupted

Image result for suburbia

sunset uninterrupted

it is the almost-quiet hour. people have come home from work. they are taking off their shoes and setting down their bags, sitting slouched in old wooden chairs on boring porches dreaming their boring dreams, obsessed with their boring fears. they await the six o’clock news, in which a conventionally beautiful blonde with a nebulous face will tell them about their boring communities and explain to them facts and processes which they should already know. “ah, i did not know we were at war with afghanistan! where the hell is afghanistan anyway?” the man’s wife shrugs. all of the people in this boring suburb suffer from the apathy of comfort. one night a man in a black coat will slit their throats with banality’s shimmering knife while they slumber, but today is not that day.

bent cypress branches

sway over dark stillwater

too many sunsets