i am the fiercest mother fucker this side of the mississippi
i smash glass bottles and bust through saloon doors
looking for the day willing to stare me in my damn eyes
i crucify the pacemakers
the hearts that don’t beat on their own and just follow
the instruction manual and stay on their side
of the double yellow lines

i crash through glass ceilings
i burn down churches and pray they rebuild god in their place
i pray they see me coming
i am down on bended knee asking for a light that blinds the ignorant
great radioactive waves that cast shadows on dry counties
and flood their history with second chances and first blood
the first blood red sunset harvest moon manifesto
i wrote this! bloody pen in hand i carved my soul into my bones
i created this small moment of fire
this unquenched desire to burn the binding of bad history books
and rename the sky as nameless

i shamelessly drive one hundred thousand miles per hour into your sun room
i push through time like a fist through the virgin threshold of life
i become a little each time i’m reborn dust to ash to fire to flame
and no two days should ever be the same
let’s go motherfuckers! there is a war for peace in my veins
there is no need for constant change
but on a planet where the air is thinning
we must shout louder than the towers that flowered:
they were born in buds blossomed and died
leaving us this shaken up airhorn inside

let us pray

i will strike down upon thee with great vengeance!
and furious anger!
those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers!
and you will know my name is the lord
when I lay my vengeance upon thee!

some days are stars bursting like skulls shot at bullets
some days are just herding the sheep in for the brainstorm

and i’m trying, ringo
i’m trying real hard to be the shepherd



co flag mountains

My poem Four Beers in at the Irish Rover has been chosen to be featured on the Denver Poetry Map!

In short the Denver Poetry Map assigns poems to the locations in Denver they were written about or at.

Take a second and check out this awesome site and my poem HERE.


those flowers are not from you. they are from me.
i wanted to send you something to let you know
that you are very very very much loved.
i know sometimes life can feel quite busy
or overwhelming and sometimes unbearable
but through all of this you always remain
in my thoughts, because you deserve to be thought of.
that is the truth. these are not just pretty words
that are a dime a dozen. this is truth. the truth.

i hope you picked out your favorites. yeah i knew you liked
those flowers and it’s not important which flowers you picked out
but the fact that you chose carefully what flowers
you would get yourself allowed me to get you the flowers
that you wanted, because people are not given flowers
often enough. and it has nothing to do with the price.
if you can’t afford flowers, steal your neighbor’s flowers.
i do not encourage theft: steal your neighbor’s flowers.
there are too many flowers living complete boring lives
in suburban wastelands or botanical gardens. there are flowers
in the discount section of the local grocery store.
that is the literal image that corresponds with a craigslist
missed connection ad. buy those flowers.

these flowers are a torch, so pick red and orange and yel-
low ones, because i am passing on to you something that you
should hold dearly as i would hold you dearly if you were not
across highways, oceans or galaxies my sweet alien love. i
want you to know that you are incendiary. when you
ignite the spark in your pulmonary arteries you set
flame to your lungs and the fumes in your lungs climb your
trachea like a smoke stack and you burn like a great ship
on a still ocean as brachiocephalic fireblood rushes to your
untouched arms and that is why i got you these flowers
so neither of us will ever forget the way that you were and are
and always will be.

this is the way that you were and are
and always will be.

take these flowers and find them water.

give them sunlight and sing them stupid songs.

put them in your windowsill and watch them bloom
young light to gamma-ray burst to inevitable dusk
may they be with you through it all.



bishop's castle

in the wet mountains of southern colorado
in the san isabel national forest
a man named Jim Bishop
decided he wanted to build a castle

at the age of fifteen
Jim Bishop payed $450
for a two and a half acre
parcel of land
he earned the money
by mowing lawns,
being a paperboy
and working with his father
on the family business
of iron

jim dropped out of school
after a teacher yelled at him
“you’ll never amount to anything,
Jim Bishop!”
but Jim Bishop didn’t hear that at all

Jim Bishop began building a cottage at 25
and since rocks were free and in abundance
he decided to build a stone cottage
people around him would say to him
“wow, Jim, are you building a castle?”
and he heard it too much for the answer to remain no

over many summers
stone by stone
Jim Bishop turned his endless insatiability
into in a castle in the mountains
towers 160 feet high
it still stands to this day

everyone tried to stop Jim Bishop
his teacher, society
even the government tried to halt him

that to me is the american dream
not letting anyone or anything get in your way
including america


Jim Bishop is currently in a very hard battle against cancer. To donate to help him and his loved ones through this, please visit this site.


and sometimes i assume the character
i smoke, i drink, i curse the heavens
as i pace back and forth before this old typewriter
like a black cat, ice clinking in my whiskey glass
i listen to jazz, i light a candle
i stare out the window at the sonic moon
i clear my throat, i crumple papers
i throw crumpled papers into a wastebasket
i spit into the wastebasket
i bite the tip of my glasses
i talk to myself and i say to myself
what are you doing with your time, man?
tossing papers into wastebaskets?
pretending to be this outdated caricature?
come on.
it’s time to grow up, man.
i worry about you, man.
i’m losing sight of you.
and then i say
i’m still here.
i am still here,
and i pull the papers from the wastebasket
and i cut up the words
i put my glasses back on
i clear my throat
i close the blinds from the moon
i blow out the candle
i turn off the jazz and listen to my fingertips
i put down the whiskey
and i thank the heavens
that i have returned
the prodigal son of poetry
and those cut up words shine like grace
they shine like dust in sunlight
brighter than a hangover
holier than television
i realize
i have returned
to take this fraudulent hipster me by the neck
and strangle it with my giant hands
until its last false breath vanishes
and the words are there
and everything is illuminated
and then it’s over

and when it’s over
i sleep a deep sleep
for one thousand years
in the honesty of my bed



today was a cold day in denver. a few days ago they predicted we would get a crazy snow storm over the weekend and then nothing happened when they predicted it to. everyone was posting about it on social media posting cutesy memes and basically saying “where was that storm you guys said we were getting?” and then boom. it hit us. i decided to brave it and went up to boulder with a friend which was ill-advised but i was feeling adventurous. sometimes you have to weigh life over caution. anyways it was great. saw some good friends, drank tea and played a lot of cards against humanity. i wonder how erratic these weather patterns are or if they’ve always been like that. i think about the end of the world by way of us destroying the planet. i think about what that would look like. i try to judge the level of chaos that there would be. i imagine giant megastores being robbed of their merchandise, i imagine flaming cars in city streets, i imagine i have watched too much television. then i imagine staying home for the end of the world. the instinct to survive in humans is such a double-edged sword. when we’re stripped naked we protect our hearts with our clenched fists. i heard that would we could possibly make the planet unsustainable in a predictable 30 years. i never checked the accuracy of that because it depressed me that i could see it being true. it depresses me that our police officers make national news for allegations of shooting people. it depresses me that race is an issue in america in 2015. just hear that sentence. race is an issue in america in 2015. someday our children will say one of two things. one, your generation had a lot of race issues. or two, your generation fought against a lot of race issues. we are so saturated with all of this, we don’t have time to think about it. i’m complaining about social media on a blog site. oh man it looks like i am one of those loud hypocrites. i think the snow is getting to my head a bit. i digress. let’s go folks. my burner friends say 2015 could be a year of a lot of action. i think we can prove my burner friends right. because race is still an issue in america. because sex is still an issue in america. because animosity is still alive and we are still separated humans. oh i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to get political. we were supposed to be talking about the weather.



you sonofabitch
you’ve ran off with my pants
the white light of snow
through the window
claws at my eyes
as i awake
to realize
i do not have my car

oh God
the children through the wall
their screams of joy
like nails scratching at
my styrofoam skull
each hurricane tumble
a year off my life

i do not have my car
and my blood is made of whiskey
today is a beautiful fucking unicorn
that i don’t want to chase
but god dammit my bag
is in my car
and there’s two hour parking
where i parked
and this poem will probably be
the minute too late
as i arrive to blaring tow truck
eating my four-wheeled livelihood
like a black hole, a dark star
and this asteroid floats through space
pulled by all the gravities of the universe
hungover as shit
and not gonna lie

smiling at the demon i was
and the wretched angel i awoke as
this morning



all my life i’ve leaned on my words and my heart like brick and mortar
so when that wall caved in
i found myself without a roof above my head
my rough hands may look like fists but in truth
they are just assuming the fetal position
i don’t know who i am when my home feels unfamiliar
we talk but it’s like a foreign film with the subtitles turned off

i don’t know who you are anymore
and that’s probably my fault
but there’s no reason to look at me like i’ve left
when my back is breaking trying to hold this roof up
and so is yours and i know that my knees are bending
and you are holding on to the heavy end
but we’ve gotta let go and let this crash down around us
maybe we’ll find that the open night sky provides the space we need
fresh air to breathe to provide relief
from the carbon monoxide around us
you pulled the batteries out of the detector
but i sat there and watched you do it

sometimes being in the moment
means playing cleanup for our past selves
and i think to myself
who was i then and how could i let it come to this
but then i wonder if my past self
was just overwhelmed with my past self
maybe i should live in the moment
and bring my walls in close for a while
but those tiny homes have terrible acoustics
and there’s never enough rooms in them
like a heart with just one chamber
and my heart has one thousand chambers
and there’s no ‘no’ on my vacancy sign
and i’ll leave the light on for ya
but i can’t promise you i’ll always be home
because i can’t provide bed and breakfast
when i’m sleeping on the floor starving to death
i’ve got places to meet and people to be
i’ve got a fatal case of wanderlust
and i know you want to join me on this flight
but it’s one way and red eye and i’ve read your ticket
you’re going somewhere else and you’re gonna love it there

sometimes the anchors that have kept us steady during heavy storms
become the ball and chain that keep us from the cosmos
have a safe flight. i love you more than anything. send me a postcard.