Free write 2.

Inanimate objects.
Bowl holding crayons.
Crayons salsa dancing along verandah rails.
Verandah rails watching the bulb wrapped in masking tape.
Masking tape is good at keeping it together.
Together tobacco sunbathes in papers.
Papers pull your thoughts out like a tug o’ war rope.
Rope can help you climb or die.
Die is the choice my succulent made.
Made the bed with the indent of your t shirt.
T shirt groping skin.
Skin begging for soap.
Soap can never stand up straight in the shower.
Shower swallowing your bad days.
Days watching tawny frog mouth owls trying to be branches.
Branches doing the Mexican wave in summer storms.
Storms are God’s way of throwing parties.
Parties of ants getting told to turn the music down.
Down, won’t you get up like the incense smoke?
Smoke entering your ears.
Ears following crickets laughing.
Laughing til’ the chairs boogie.
Boogie til’ the spoons clap with you.
Clap the air.
Air light, again.

Free write 1.

Caused my heart to star jump.
Saliva drowning my tongue.
Words bumping into each other in rush hour.
The stoic calm after the breathless punch.
Persistent cigarettes.
Crisp air scared off the humidity.
Crumbly vegan brownies.
Tongue licks plates clean.
Girl with magic climbing her curls.
Chest still knotted but loosens with every exhale.
It’s alright.
Hear that? That’s whistling.
Searching for the lighter to spark your eye lashes.
Cat meowing.
I want to understand her.
Wonder how many of her nine lives she’s lost.
Home on a Saturday night.
Laughing at the funny.
Candle wax fingers.
Masking tape holding the bulb up.
Grateful for noise.
For this.


Leonard Cohen spills out of me
Give me a broken Canadian man
With gravel on his tongue
And whiskey on his breathe
Plucking those guitar strings
Until fingers bleed melodies
Listening to his coarse voice sing,
“Well never mind, we are ugly
but we have the music”
Until the hairs on my arms
Give a standing ovation


Haven’t written in months
Been too busy counting
Psychosomatic symptoms
Staring at white matter
Prodding at my body
Like a neurologist on crack
And the doctor tells me
I am obsessive compulsive
That I gotta take these pills
Or else I’ll end up in the nut house
Like pharmaceuticals thrown in my gob
Are gonna save me
Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors
To close my third eye
Something to make living
In a sick society less sick
And I tried to beat it the natural way
Thought bathing in soil
Would bring me back down to earth
Turns out it’s deficient in magnesium
And my body vibrates towards cliff edges
On the daily
And the internet tells me that I’m dying
Tells me there is disease in my blood
So I get lost in the world wide web
But all I really want to do
Is get found in the world
Found in the space between
Where my hot tongue and
Western culture’s cold shoulder


I have known love
That has infected my bronchial tubes
Coughing up mucous streaked with never agains
Dirty days pressed into the search for purity
The forage for something to fill your innards
And it’ll feel like God god will smoke you
On nights you want to be touched
He’ll roll you up into gummed paper
Burn you into the night
Inhale your smile
And exhale out smokey nothings
Flick you for some short bliss
But there’ll be sparks
I’m telling you there’ll be sparks
And you’ll still be here
Despite the times you spent
In rooms detoxing from hurt
Vomiting up tears and sweating out hate
And your bulging junkie veins
Will ask for more, will beg for more
But you’ll say no, no more
Because one day you’ll be struck by awe filled days
That don’t end until they do


Always hated that superfluous feeling
The inability to conform to fluorescent pastures
That unfit heart of mine in all its too much
The way it gets puffed out from waking
How it rejects the daily perjury
And will not mistake the nine to five for truth
Somedays I eat up fear when I cannot stomach food
And the advertising billboards beat me up
Car horns beeping sound like the apocalypse
I wonder why I am still trying lie down
On the last little patch of grass
When the sheep in ties have munched on it all
But sometimes the breeze taps me on the shoulder
And it all comes together like a symphony
Of pens scrawling paper journals
Of dogs barking trying to speak
Of the oceans waves throwing tantrums
Of tree branches nuzzling each other
Of bicycle tires gliding the streets
Of poetry readings in dim lit light
Of adults on children’s playgrounds
Of her reaching orgasmic bliss
Because I will not live my days
Photocopied by a receptionist
Wearing polyester shirts
The prosaic makes me nauseous
I do not want to feel the static of small talk
I want to feel the symphonies of being