come now and gather round children
and i will tell you the tale
of a wind that is bound to blow in
and the way that the wind will wail

see i too once was a baby
rocking away in the bough
when a breeze came along and it shoved me
down down down

and i fell from the arms of my mother
i fell from the limbs of the tree
and this wind that keeps on blowing
will never let me be

when i sleep it scratches my window
and it wakes me from my dreams
this wind never gets it answers
at least that’s how it seems

this wind is a storm in the making
and it follows me like death
and i’m worried that this poem
will be my final breath

and i’m worried for you dear children
that’s why i sing this story
of the wind that never softens
of its evil endlessly glory

it will follow you
it will follow you
it will follow you to the graveyard

it will follow you
it will follow you
it will lead you to the end

it will follow you
it will follow you
like a song lost in your skull now

and the thing about
this wind called death
is he is your most loyal friend


i am unafraid to say to you.

let each day work towards my freedom
let each moment in love be unabashedly sincere
let each porch swing swing high into the night
fly off its ropes and ascend graceful into the heavens

let there be flashfloods of hope
lightning storms of abundance
angels dancing like hipsters in the flat
of some famous dead poet

let us kiss like we just discovered this. lips
let us bust through the ropes that contain
our cocaine hearts
let us be ready to face our new love

let the birds free from the chapel
traveling through time to a holy grave
soldiers falling for the future
as one ascends into existence in this white light symphony
this giant sandbox of death and orgasm

let die the dying dog
pour water on the campfire and get some sleep
take moments to just be
tear them off the paper on the bulletin board
call the number listed

let lay my head beneath you
i do not fear how tall you are
i am unafraid to say to you
i am unafraid to say to you
i am unafraid to say to you
how deep your rivers run through my limbs

let down the moon from drunk denver
let our steps be chaotic, unplanned and together
let lay we against the timeless brick walls
let lay we lost in the cosmos above oz

let we move
not forward not backward
not any way in particular
let we dance yes dance
dance veronically for the world
let we dance for the stoplights
for the lost generations
let we breathe this gospel in
let we scatterbrain talk
let we automatic touch
let we semi-automatic breathe
let we swallow these great sighs like buildings falling

these tied up wildflowers
i am unafraid to say to you
i am unafraid to say to you
i am unafraid to say to you the end.




Here’s one of my favorite love poems I’ve written. Give it a read. Happy Valentine’s Day.





(letters to a young poet from a young poet.)

i’ve heard too many times
“i am not very good at poetry,”
that is like saying
“i am not good at breathing,”
you’re going to do this
whether you want to or not
so you might as well
make your breaths deep
take in the fragrance in the air
along with the carbon monoxide
write your poetry
like a carpenter would make
his own crucifix

if you are uninspired
and you are a poet
it is time
to start sneaking into movie theaters
time to drive your car home in reverse
spend a day trapped inside your home
dressed like emily dickinson
stalking a housefly
attempt to roll uphill

your blood is eighty-five percent water
come to a rolling boil
you were not made to be luke warm
if you are body temperature
you are denying yourself
the chance to be something other than a body

you will write shitty poems
you will have shitty relationships
and shitty jobs with shitty bosses
and sometimes the most precious of poems
gets damaged in a move

you are not a poet
until you type your soul on a screen
and forget to save
but when that computer crashes
you will learn
that some things cannot be taken away from you

there are plenty of people out there
who won’t want to hear your poetry
but you do not speak for them
we all speak to the ears that want to hear
there is a method to the madness
of bees and their flowers

you do not have to share your poems
but document your heart beats
and your heart murmurs alike

sometimes a bad poem
is the prosthetic legs
of a good poem

as far as love
you have to love
loneliness is a bitch
big, big bitch
the fat kid in class
who steals your lunch
because he can’t get full on his
but you have to love
throw yourself into uncomfortable

pad your bed with broken dreams
make strangers less strange
and embrace their stories as your own
because time turns us into alphabet soup
and no one can claim the letters as theirs for long
your mouth carries the fiber of the universe
your dreams form our reality
speak now
or forever hold your peace

write everyday
write with borrowed pens on napkins at diners
and write with scratches on the backs of lovers
tiger stripe God’s car
throw eggs at his driveway
ding dong ditch his front door
leave a flaming bag of dog shit for him to put out
God knows only how to smile
at the precocious little monster you’re being
someday you’ll just be glad you made some memories

a poet is one hell of a hard thing to be
there is no health care, no 401k
no big benefits package
you don’t get sick time
but you will make money off of it
you’ll just be dead by then

the wealth of a poet is measured
in the lint in your pocket
and the gems you’ve placed
in the pocket of the hearts
of those around you

a friend once said to me
the worst thing someone can be to you
is bad poetry
and i believe that to be true
i cannot unhear what i have heard
and you cannot say
what you decided to let be unsaid

take a second
close your eyes
and take in a deep breath
before you start turning blue
let it out


READ 02.06, DAY 6 OF THE 28 DAY 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a thirty day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE


there is a windstorm in my skull where leaves rustle endlessly
where a man with an inside out umbrella is thrown about the post rain streets
the sky is overdosing on clouds and the sun is laying under the table drawing red beams on the underside
there are heavy stone angels in parks in my skull that serve as a paperweight for my heart
there are dead trees that fall into streets and onto telephone line where birds scatter as headlights swerve the hilly city trying to seek refuge from the wind and the constant chill and the dangerous roads that twist like a benzedrine high

there is a church in my skull
a great basilica where homeless seek shelter and sit in luke warm circles praying to the most loving God they can imagine
the stain glass windows flash with the lightning outside and the pews rumble with thunder as the candle chandeliers swing from the ceiling like indecision
i am somewhere lost within my own madness, behind a trash can down a back alley
and like a savior

you walk through unabashedly

apathetic to the windstorm around you

and your eyes reach out their warm hands to me and pick me up off the dirty ground

and you carry me home to my warm bed where I read this poem to you.



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