A Change of Mind

How I will live an extrodinary life with a sick and injured brain.

I’ll write it out until I figure it out

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If I could taste,

Once more fresh

Snow, the Rockies 

As a child marching 

Heart deep within soft

Crystal; to slide so hard

And far apart from the cold.



Truth is a variable 

Of everybody’s fiction,

And good fiction will

Always be true.

Rest Stop

If lost on your way, and the center divide

Seems to sway, pull off course to map your



When there is nowhere to go: exit to refuel,

Or shut off your eyes.


The exit is close; but find reprieve in me.



Free the Flies

A secret buzzing in the kitchen

Has all rattled; eyes wide and

Fingers outstretched to peel

Apart layers of mail, and part

A sea of empty bottles.


Humming persist to reveal

Two bowls stacked: bruised

Decaying garlic whisked away

Uncovers half a bleeding squash.


It is best to look away once

Bile reaches the throat

Knowing the vegetable became

A womb.


Beneath the flesh stir implants

Who ravish and hollow their

Host. The surrogate tawny belly

Must be cut to free the flies.


It will be well to open

Each window and door. A breeze

Clears the air and invites a breath.

Silence enters the home as reality

Suggests things are not good enough.

Clock Test

To draw a clock out of time,

with its face blank, and each hand

pointing where just one off chime

illustrates how deep I am entombed in sand.


With a blank face; my hands

tip Azreal’s hourglass. This offers understanding;

illustrates how deep I am entombed in sand.

However, with each ticking, I am freestanding.


Tip the ampoule; renewal and ruin offer understanding

on how to be alive in the meantime.

However, as grains run out, I am freestanding

to draw a clock out of time.

Run into You

Flushed cheeks result when I cleave

to you. Our love will lift

dead weight offsetting my fragile stance.

From a union many have run.

Dodging the fall; few did ascend.

Peaking this romance; I acquire callouses.


Struggle in independence devours and callouses

reaching hands feeling about, to cleave,

where animalism considers humanity. We ascend

in fool hearted conformity. Why lift

one another beyond emotion? We run

opposing each other; infinity’s magnetic stance…


force ties, and fortify our stance.

I need to say these callouses

are unique, so when I run

to you nothing is evaded. Cleave

to an image of me; lift

me if I am fallen. Ascend


to know me; perfect this stance.

Cut, and peeled back callouses expose,

preserved, a sweetheart who will run.


All things will fall
Apart, and some are
Replaced, or left shelved.
We can play chicken, or Russian
Any game of death
If love is what we like.

Shore to Sea, and All the Gods Between

Sometimes, as I begin to write, mania comes to mind as a shark looming on the crest of my craft; she swims circles around my desk.

Her visit in its birth is exhilarating; a surf at sunrise. Eventually I am hook pierced with waves clenching agitated jaws against my temples.

The salty queen threatens to sheath me within terrible waters. Billows of Poseidon ravage me: innocence gone, married to sea’s madness, mania reins over a comber in my mind.

If molested, caught up in tide, she may drown me in this poem. Seashore mirages have me hunting words, as glory, on my daily quest. Day-dream-divine revelations wash up rippling holy insights on how I may try a new way to write my life. Lucidity is just a game of chance; Nonetheless, I dive into a new body of words.

I once wrote a series of essays: ordained, spirits fire burned, my mind went sailing into dream. Divine revelation downloaded, vibrating holy insights, on how I may try a new life.

My faith, terrifying and wondrous as the oceans sultana, opened my ears, to hear gods shriek as I wrote in shadows. I crafted for hours, even days, free from the mercy of sleep. How easy it was to pray audibly, as host to mania, she was happy to transcribe.

I possessed enough vivacity to ignite hysterical worship as host to her diction. I hypothesized it was God wind persuading the waves: medication concluded, seized the breeze, and stopped the seas from rolling.

Questioning now; have I remembered to medicate twice, today? Doing this will keep me grey. A five on a scale ranging one through ten; a self-perceived rate of sanity.

At ten, I am genius: I scribble without rest, see visions, hear voices, and at the farthest extent impale or poison myself on impulse. Frustration the effervescence: wounded and hooked; blood and breathe surface, draw the shark, and she devours my consciousness.

Swimming fast beneath my skin, her fin gives warning at the surface of each page; I write. Insomnia like water rushing through gills; keeps me moving toward shore, but my scent is locked in her memory, and she may sense me writing now as it was then.

I have gone months, mute, without a word: neither read nor written; if it was spoken I did not hear. Rated at a one on sanity’s scale, I am dumb, not yet dead.

Depression, the phantom queen, is the sirens keening euphoric lullaby. Bewitched and lured unto the breasts of the Morrigan banshees, by the promise of sensual rest.

I leap off a cliff. Aerial descending, in tune with the music of crows gnashing at wind, finally absorbed within stiff water. Shipwrecked, all my thoughts and things have rusted lackluster.

Wrapped in song I sleep too deep, perhaps fifteen hours; distant, without words, all thoughts sucked in and void. Fatal lethargy keeps me safe from the corruption of too many thoughts. A sea birds song as talons in my heart. I have sunk; the sea is too deep, and I do not care to swim. I pray to feel the shark grip me again; God have her hunt me.

Presently I stare off into air. Looking for intelligence to match my conception; to craft thoughts into words, which can do their work, on paper.

Oh, not another hypothesis, I pray, but God muse in me please! I know the queen whom blocks a thought; Lord, please, have their flock pass overhead.

Their shadow holds intensity enough. The silence of the Morrigan queen, deadly as their song, is mantic dust that never settles. Siren’s call: determined to murder, disembowel, foretelling of impending doom. I won our battle past, as they could not anticipate my fighting affinity.

How my lusty worship, briny and sovereign surf, taught me to swim under waves of sound. Now grey, new balanced, in the center of sanity’s scale; silence has become pain. My pen, like beach sand chafes in folds of skin, has calloused one finger; an abrasion not like that of puncture wounds; my scars remind me how I once made love to mania.

Forever caught up in war between opposing forces: kingdoms of air and water; each battle brings a wave. Change in tide can slide a scale: sanity is relative to nothing, I feel nothing, and I write nothing.

Save the Fish

Just a game of white elephant:

Four lives exchanged, stolen, and on a budget.

December was cold, so I made effort to

Back slide in time without medication or

God. A party was just in time for the four of us to

Sink, and fall out.


Booze and sensual touch fattened me Christmas

Eve, blood red, Marry crept up drunk.

I thought my steal from him clever;

Two fish in a tank for children. I perceived him

Afraid; too much commitment caring for fish.


I stole a kiss; the bathroom hall a

Hunting ground for advances unfounded.

Embarrassment, mutual, as we stumble

Humbly off from each other.  Oh, wait! I

Cannot forget the stolen gift I planned to re-gift:

Two fish in a tank.


I considered my sobriety as neutral. I carefully

Tucked the tank in the back of my car.  Motions

Fluid, I gave into urgency to leave. Some time did pass

Saying goodbye, I forgot, everything. Blank. Black. Driving.

Slosh! Immediately I mourned the loss of the four of

Us; my desire, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

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