Shoved On

Life will gaff you

Or just in brief

Leave you blue sky light

And sliding with the breeze.

I bandage what I can.

Sense when things need water.

Pause to halt

Making it all tumble down.

Bees draw pollen,

Leaches blood.

The word is filled

With many nectars.

Gnawing hard at bone

Is a force to live.

Survival the most powerful

Of machines.

Shoved to swim, knowing,


We all drown.




Lost loves and pistol whips

Adorn the panicked parts

Of this brain.

No more dreamer,

No more dream.

Age grows old

As so the nothing else

Of nothing left.

In a gripped mind

Some remembrances

Seem sutured shut.

Lend air to the wickedest wounds.

Create space not suffocate.

If it clings let go;





The chance of refuge

Comes to some

Shiny eyed and inebriated

In the hocus-pocus;

Oh how man can spin such yarns.

This reflex to breathe

Fills many

More than just in lungs.

Centuries after I am gone

There will be new gods,

New prayers,

New psalms come down

From the sky.

Most will sing,

All will still


Be well.




The immediate green.

Once I awoke in the woods.

There is a need

For a touch of sky

In walking the earth.

A saturate of such

To saunter just above it.

For moments,

Color, form, space

Is a breathing place;

There is no division,

All existence inhales and blends.

Skin will contain you;

It’s a remarkable sheath

And these shakes

Won’t even shake it off.

But to hold on

Lie down,

Don’t cower,

And trust too

You’ll be able

To speak human once again.

If you don’t relinquish it

You will not last.

Keeping it is

For other kinds

Of creatures.



Wasp Stung

I search for the chemical cause;

Brainwaves that toss the motion.

The flight that ain’t so fleeting.

A freeze just not in the pound

Of the frantic heart.

In these ancient arteries

Come down from ages,

Carry constricted

And push steps like blood, on.

The why will stay unseen

And drive man to crave,

Call with no return

From the invisible unresponsive.

In green

The gardener grew.

I am not that.

In flesh tones

This man feels a quake

Where others feel only a tremor.

A day is a year,

A year, enough of this length of life.

This weight of what accumulates.

Even air can seem to singe.

The wise know not to wonder.



This Each Day

Images churned and turned

To forgetful memories.

All past flashes,


You can’t prove where I’ve been,

Nor I anymore;

Life has gotten long.

These such things not cloaked

But seized by turning away.

I seem accustomed.

Quiet hauntings

Drive or retract

Any given step.

All cures are artifice.

I am tied

And grow timid

With age.