Artist Without Art

The only good thing about me
is that my love for humanity
creates the perfect mirage
of joy
and pure empathy
(also known as despair)
enough to
my every action
as honorable or desperate

both of which scenarios
find defeat
in my pure artistry

(which is invisible on the spectrum of


Glorious Glory

Glorious glory, go on
and adore me
This is creation
all created just for me
I have no Want
for retaliation as skin
There is no son
of the Mother as kin
Bless me father, for
I have sinned
Drown me in holy water
I own no evil
for satan to kiss
with wet lips
Glorious glory, go on
and bore me
I am too glorious
for creation to fix

Last Pages

Discontent is a constant
just as good as happiness –

It’s all the same
awake or at rest

I find myself here at every
last page

I could eat funny cookies every day
or fill the gap of doubt
with mushroom caps
or acid or Christianity

I could see something beautiful
but nothing would change

unless I believed it so
Just as I am sad
my happiness deranged

I could finish one last page
in my Book of happys
and unhappys,
find myself anywhere
in the end

I am no prodigal daughter
in the moonlight
naming stars

I am no crying martyr in sunlight
who laughs for all the same reasons
as I did many seasons
I know
and I knew
all things are too bright
and too dark to fall through
either way
in death or in a day

Happiness is working for money
you can’t make
or the hellos to a stranger
lost on a train

Happiness is having somebody to call
at all
even if they don’t
pick up the phone
when you need them
that moment the most

But, they always call back
once your breathing is
no longer
erratic and suicidal, is
no longer flesh on bones
a rotting recital

Discontent is just the right mess
disguised in a mask
of challenge or pain;
it is a frown that breaks into beauty
at the surprise of
sunshiney rain

I always smile
on the last page

No matter the paths I’ve aged
since the last
or the longing un-understandable
that I know alone and Saved

Each last page that I reach
is a peace and a rage
of Me

I am reborn in grief and mourning momentum
lifted by ribbons
on the straps of my soul,
flying away with my smile numbered “None”
and dutifully named only
as “Old

and never lonely”

un tItled fIrst and last

Talk in b
Can n ot
k SMall

Well, Well

The music comes a
gain Over

Goes un

I was Born
that day

Di ed
mel-ody  ‘s

A fetus

with the

In fetal

Shallow knee-d

Swaddled in lay
ers of

SPeak Up wake Up
sing Up

Open eyes

for No

Dream in
dream in
in guise

I am not
a  fraid  To

To Wake
In dark – ly
sparking Anti

Matter gues sing

Deep breather I am the
gratefully Grace

Keep’to Here

dreaming near Myself
is You un

Clearly merely
a guest to guess all
pleases A
nd pleasers

You me
i wake large

Sleep Small an

as I re charge

born to Use-less
ears de af

dark wit h

Tell Me (misinformation)

What’s the point
in living
or giving
like praise
or a prize
to anoint and save
the death in my eyes(?)

I am Hate
I rejoice
for the Thanksgivings
of Summer
and the tortuous ways
of Sun against snow:
another life I do not know
without blunder

I am thunder
on the weekend
seeking a second
like a month were Thursday –
as minute as a sewn fray

Nothing is gay or straight
or straight
or aligned
Nothing remains
crooked as Orlando goes
or unpredictable as Time blows
like Time were wind of
war on the shore
of a beach born
not to grow

A heat of
forsaken thee
A killing of whoever
as disease
screaming “Whatever!”
at the sky on our knees

I have no needs
I have only dreams
I am a dream
and stitches are seams
And breaths are pleas
saying “please”
with their breaths
like Forever

Tomorrow is our tether
like Yesterday’s weather –
but pleasured
and come
by belief
and the craze of Whatever

Whats the use in living
not together
when all time
is a measure
of a dollar against a dime
and a cry against the Whys?

Tell me, tell me,
how to lie

Cold as Fire

All fires burn out
but I sanctify them “Burn
on! Burn on!”

One can only kindle
a pathway like force
or magic
in fleeting ruptures,
then here-face you the of dark of cold
after warmth
gone-too-old for
to warm anymore

Some fires never burn
but only live
as abandoned sticks stuck
tithing in ritual formation
And these fires,

these are the fires
who really know how to burn
once they’re lit

Maybe it only-simply-laughably
takes the drying
of wood
like time
to anticipate
the brilliance of shining

A campfire is no different
than a star when
it’s vitality is more than sky or rock
or inhalingexhaling ocean
may dream to be a-part

No fire
can burn forever,
but no flame who wished to blaze
can be quietly tethered as for revolution
against what Is

I’ll say, I pray

“Burn on! Burn on
and burn away!

I have faith
you will burnburn another day –

Burn on!
(I pray you will)
Burn on again and burn on
Burn on forever!, all you little suns