United States

Creative Writer
Holy Emo Trinity
Birds, Dogs, Cats
Sanders Sides
Plague doctors
Gothic aesthetic
Classical lit

Published Work

Monochrome Seas

As I lie with my back arched 
against the bed frame,
I wade in the salt-water seas 
of my mind
which ebb and flow like sound waves.
The world has stilled to a statue’s 
inert poise,
and its chaos has wandered off into the night,
silent as a dead mouse.

I clutch my phone to my face, 
alive and alert,
absorbing every rise and fall 
in the girl’s tone
as she speaks, letting the 
ups and downs
fill crevices in my head that 
I couldn’t reach

Before she came, 
I was without
the mad roaring rush of the 
drowned and joyful mind.
I was without
the river Thing which feels
the object of its cravings is nearby,
bobbing below the waves,
and which feels that all it has to do 
is reel its prey up and catch it and hold it 
tightly to its breast.

A black sea swirls in front of me.
A white lighthouse beam flashes

A Thousand and a Half Miles

A thousand and a half miles 
stand between you and me. 
They flicker and glow to form an 
astral wall in the sky. 

Shall I travel the rainbow trail? 
Shall I weave the star-spun tightrope? 
Shall I extract the solar glass
from wounds, prismatic on my soul?
No, I without feet can’t fulfill the feat. 

A thousand and a half miles 
will be the death of me. 
They sparkle and hum to form a 
sickly veil in the sky.

My spectral eyes weep diamonds. 
Maybe I am a mirage too, 
a mere trick of starlight, 
but amid your cosmos I sense 
that I am flesh and bone. 
Is this what it feels like to be human? 

A thousand and a half miles 
will shape our lives for free. 
They shimmer and buzz to form a 
stellar bridge in the sky. 

We are waiting at the threshold, 
skin-deep in our own galaxies. 
We are waiting at the threshold, 
with our fates...

Blood Equations

Cuts collect over your body,
continuing a paranoid existence.
Do them the right way. 
Cold, inanimate functions.

You are fractured and bloodied.
A body contorted- arms wound
tight around legs.
Rip them, free them.

Your claw took the
nightmare and lodged it
impossibly into
red skin.

Left, right, behind.
A bold mistake you walk-
drawing, spreading blood
you used to need.

It’s not clean, it’s unfair.
The whistle of decision burned 
your skull down, quick and done, 
demolishing your memories.

You are only skin and bones,
a truth and code rewritten.
You tried your best;
this isn’t on you.

Broken functions.

>Remember the perspective
that destroying yourself
cures pain like death.
>Tell them it’s better this way.

You couldn’t take it anymore.
The body you dragged home,
raw and lost, wasn’t even yours.
You are slipping from the injustice.

It’s a handful of hours
surviving and smoldering
in broken glass shards.
If you keep quiet

My Own Personal Magician

I’ve had enough of oblivion.
I’ll rise like the sun at mid-day
and cast a spell on your pretty face.
I am a magician. Be entranced.
Light beams stream in through
the glass-paned framework of
the spectacle I make.

To you I swear an oath.
It’s as sickly sweet as the 
apple to Eve’s lips:
I’ll rip off my face, I’ll blur
my eyes behind a cold guise.
I’ll stamp on the heart’s remains
‘til they’re crinkled 
motes and memories.
The lines and curves of human
beings will bend to look at me;
I will be so much more
than what you know.
I’ve had enough of forgetting---
you’ll recall the grand ascent,
I fancy, and you’ll spectate 
my fantasy.

I tuck the dread away
behind a modern bookcase.
It seems so orthodox you
might regret seeing it.
You’ll never think to feel
the shuddering spines of my
recollection for a doubt that’s
burrowed deep inside me.
You’ll never think...

A Manifesto For Aspiring Writers


It’s astounding how one word can carry so many implications. By putting words on a page, you’re weaving a narrative. You’re laying out your heart and soul. You’re declaring, “This is my story--- nobody else’s”, and you’re sticking to that.

In my opinion, being an author is unique to other artistic pursuits. We pull from a vast storehouse of words and memories and images while we’re writing. Every word conceivable is linked to an idea which has been stored in our neurons, condensed into the tiny space we like to call a brain. We will not be able to recall where all the words came from. To write is a highly subconscious process.

The word ‘write’ implies that you are actively doing something. That’s not what writing is all about. You are actually a passive observer. If you are to write, you must be vigilant. After all, you are the sole eyewitness of every story you write. Each character...

The Unseen

Oculus of Suffering

Invisible motion
And conjoined hearts are so
Unreliable. What
Does it matter to you
If I lose or win this
Time? If I spill all my
Cards as the timer
Ticks down --- pile on the
Ground, pleading for mercy---
What would it matter to
You? We have world-hopped to
Dystopian romance
Where the takers and the
Fakers wind up on top.
Invisible motion
Catches us in its eye---
Spectral, elusive blur,
A color lost in time.
Open your sunset eyes.
Conjoined hearts have always
Been predators, and we
Surrender to their bite. 
There's one truth we know of
This wound trapped on the flesh
Even after we've lost
Decades, decades again:
Our hearts are in motion
Forever--- this is so,
Especially when we
Rein them into their cells.
So say, if you mean well:
Am I the one bearing
The leash, or am I the
One wrapped inside red teeth?
We can't control its aim.
My words grow trite,...

when the world began

listen to her. fronds unfurling. 
we all will listen to her.
hushed. trembling. gingerly
she whirls in the wake of sunlight.
on her head, organic jewelry
glistens without gemstone touches.
listen to her. emerald leaves breathe.
take one more breath and she is freed.
roots gripping the earth, grasping life
for all that life is worth. she still
dances to the forgotten drum.
youthful prances fit for a queen---
oh she, she is royalty.
listen to her. teacup parties.
her nerves, visible and branching.
centuries wove her a thick hide.
“wear it, girl.” she wears it, merry.
take one more breath and let her feed.
she crawls toward the opal midnight---
slinks to open skies, beckoning
for the sun to grace her body.

this calm ruler is in peril.

teenage vigor that never dies
often stabs itself in the heel.
why the heel? why, with the green beasts
we shall never kneel. crystal flank
gorged by the mouth of the...

The Ephemeral Bleeding of the Wax

POET--- mother, father; sister, brother---
Go cherish life for all you almost know. 
Relapse, curtains--- light candles!--- another! 
Oddly do we flicker in sweltering woe. 

Return we to our time-beaten cycles, 
Beaten yet again. Death struts in great strides
Since hope will trickle. Has it paused for us? 
Sin bright as light bears solely ebon tides. 

Wax melts. Pull yourself together, you sad
Statue! Stony-faced hog of carver's shame! 
Cradle, you, this doll in porcelain clad.
Hold! Life fleets for you and your silk dame. 

When all is said and done, you'll relish age. 
Daisy scent. Oven fumes curling. Over.
Draw fabric both ways o'er your puddled stage. 
It stings! It burns! It gashes! Seethes ever! 

Pain, they say, is only temporary. 
But if that's true, so is the contrary. 

Names, Names, Names

Mostly Puns, Partially References

A breakfast joint-- Pan's Cakery
A new smartphone-- Nebula N44
An eyeglasses store-- the Image Correction Utility store
A dog pound-- Pawesome Pooch Shelter
A highway-- ET 82
An island resort-- Kiwi Flight Resort
A new constellation-- Corvid Major
A pet polar bear-- Arizona
A nail polish color-- Pig blush pink, savvy sable, beautiful blubber, elegant eigengrau, visceral violet, morose opal, pettifog purple (my personal favorite)
A new butterfly species-- Laertes odyssea

Open Prompt


Reverent life form, reverend of earth
Hymns his mother and squanders his worth.
Reverent life form, reverend of earth---
What force deserted his body at birth?

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2020

a particle known as oblivion

back when
the day was young,
earth's great eggshell would glisten--
the yolk would sing.
beneath it, men in coats sat.
frolicking birds
they were, who hung hands on racks
and eyes on hooks.
they did insist on their ways. 

one day
I revealed to them what else
a man could hang, 
this time
from the ceiling.

they kept their ways. 

my time then came.
I would have stayed
if I could, but
I was not born
to move at all.

the larks laughed at fate. they held
high to a jocund fire.
burning, burning.
their hearts churning-- destiny.

at 9 pm
I grew attached
to my new aviary.
the embers ever burned now.

the men grew ill,
burnt out by life.

at 10 pm
cracks of light were whispering.
fearful, I fled
and shut my door.

the embers never burned now.

they wanted in
but I wouldn't let them in
from crumbling
night's arms.

"please don't crush them!" ...