Salvador Dali
Salvador Dali

have you ever entered the diamond eye of the night
when particles of light float around your home
in the dead twilight of silence and you are left at last
to contemplate why your mind and your heart have decided
to always dance this dance?

have you ever entered the very soul of the human cocoon
sat in a room alone with a book and a cup of humble tea
or maybe across a chess board from a mind more brilliant
and taken in the breaths the pulsating pulses between
the words and the music and the humming of the refrigerator
but felt nothing but raw honest purpose?

have you ever awoken from an eternal slumber to find yourself
naked and hungover and lost in post-beligerant confusion
looking into the mirror at your hair grown manic grown spastic
and you find your keys in the freezer but you can’t seem to find
your psyche anywhere?

have you ever knelt before gentle giants that put their hands out to you
grab the stars from the sky breaking constellation chains and they put
those stars into a big woven apple basket and collect them and
they hand one to you and you just continue to kneel and don’t know what to say
but your song is just the word ‘grateful’ again and again?

have you ever apologized for something you didn’t do wrong?
have you ever done the less fun thing because it meant so much to someone?
have you ever had a conversation with a mad man who believed the system
the system man it’s all just the system and the government and do you take
this bus often but seriously we’re all being fucked and part of you thinks
this person is fucking nuts but another part of you thinks
maybe he’s right and i’m the crazy one?
have you ever sacrificed a night of sleep for a beautiful girl
in the back of a 1995 honda civic with a manual transmission
and a broken window?
have you ever walked through hot ashes to get a gallon of milk?
have you ever stepped outside of your little shack on the side of a mountain
and realized that you are hanging upside down?
have you ever read the koran, the bible, the diamond sutra
in the eyes of someone who wasn’t you?

have you ever realized that we are each and every one of us
a thousand watt lightbulb bursting slowly in a dark room?

sorry if i got a bit carried away back there.
oh me oh my.
i just can’t help myself.





i didn’t sleep last night so of course i’m suffering from some god damn ennui. i didn’t know i was suffering from ennui until i stumbled across the word in a haruki murakami book and i had to google and i said oh yeah ennui, that’s me. good old ennui. stuck in the stale air of this room burning the same old incense along with this putrid midnight oil. listening to the same old jazz playlist that reminds me of max in australia and kathryn and logan in the bedrooms next store. i’m such an ungrateful bastard tonight. i’ve got food in the fridge and i’ve got music and yeah i’m professionally single but that’s not what’s bothering me but maybe it’s what’s bothering me. where ya at now, bukowski? with your it’s okay to be lonelies and your stare at the flower staring back at you. all i’ve got is the incense and the jazz and the cheap merlot and the ennui. the blues. whoever invented the ennui didn’t know about the blues and whoever invented the blues didn’t know the ennui. they kept to france and america, respectively.

i didn’t sleep last night. i just plugged away all day and i drove my drive and i read my lines and i stopped at the gas station for orange juice on the way home i think just to do something. just to escape my routine. maybe i should commit a crime. rob a bank in a nixon mask. run through the neighorhood in a monster mask. start a revolution in a guy fawkes mask. i need a mask. i need a sip of this cheap wine hold on.

i need to get rid of this god damn ennui. go to sleep they say. tomorrow’s a new day they say. yeah yeah. you’re not pacing around the room with this ennui riding your back. this incredible demon that spins the hour hands around your internal clocks. it laughs and laughs and chet baker you make no sense right now. how dare you interrupt my ennui with your singing and your playing and your romantic notions. you don’t get my ennui. but i know what a bastard you are behind that angelic costume you’re sporting. you’re not fooling me ya bastard with your trumpet solos. you’re probably chilling with bird right now you bastard. you’re probably knocking boots with marilyn or cleopatra or maybe you’re just sleeping. maybe you’re the one who stole my sleep. chet baker this one goes out to you. this is my sappy little ditty for you. filled to the brim with ennui and carlo rossi wine. ya bastard. you heartless cruel man. i just want to sleep i refuse i refuse. this damn ennui it’s killing me. it’s eating me from the inside out. this ebola. this demon spinning the clocks. this bull in my china shop. this ennui. what a dumb word. ennui. i don’t think it’s a word any more. it sounds fake to me. it sounds phony.

where’s my wanderlust. where the hell did i put my keys and where the hell did i put my wanderlust? did i leave it at the bar with my credit card and my dignity? did i waste a saturday night. oh good lord forgive me for wasting a saturday night. i’m just lying here in bed with my cheap ass wine and my girl ennui. my girl saturday. my neverending restless song. i’m gonna leave you fine folks to it now.

i’m still here. don’t get me wrong. but goodbye. i’m fine really. good bye.




you can have your big birthday bashes
your clam shell tubs
your heated saltwater pools
your easy-bake ovens in your robin’s egg blue

you can have your five-course-meals
and your ivory pianos that go unplayed

you can have your da vinci veneers
and your exclusive yoga resorts
your thirty-thousand television channels
and your personal foreign masseuse

you can have your granite stone lazy susans
and your egyptian cotton table runners
your chandeliers from western somalia
and your china cabinets filled to the brim
with your tiffany blue diamond encrusted
china cups collecting dust
await earthquakes that will be covered by your
super-fantastic fear insurance

you can have your rhinestone dresses
and your tailor-made suits
your neiman marcus children
and your norman rockwell dog

you can have your summer homes
your recreational vehicles
your collection of glorious horses
your large plots of empty land and
your enviable glamping adventures
amongst the itinerated outdoors

you can eat every last page
of your skymall magazine
on your personal jet plane
flying thousands of expensive miles
above my lowly head

you can bury yourself in egyptian tombs
or have your ashes spread into the playa del carman
as dolphins backflip for you
in honor of your nancy meyer movie life
let the fireworks celebrate your incredible ability
to make phone calls and place orders and command people
to your very whimsy with your nepotist magic wand
and your mary poppins purse
but i am no dolphin
and i will not flip for you

i will be here
in my tin can
with my spaghettios
and my poetry
and smiling
the way you can only appear to
in your digitally mastered




driving home from the fight
speeding down 285
blaring good old fashioned american rock and roll
drowning my worries into night headlights

i could close my eyes in a silent field
i could breathe in and out slowly
i could focus on my blood flowing through my veins
but this is america
so i’m at home watching the god damn television
and i’m at home drinking the god damn whiskey
and i’m definitely not gonna call her




there’s a tree outside my window blowing in the wind and today it’s hard for me to not see it as a blessing
that amongst the concrete the astroturf the drywall the linoleum there is still a hint of life
leaves blowing in the wind meandering around complex apartment complexes and fences where no fences once were
across the forty mile per hour street is a motionless park a boddhisattva named for some white dude
but it was a boddhisattva long before that and it will remain one when the vines cave in the sign – the flag
driving down the highway yesterday in my four chairs on wheels we went under a bridge in denver named emerson
and there was not a tree a bush a river a flower to be found nearby but the road did lead to a whole foods for what that is worth
somewhere in the ground is emerson as trees are chopped down to form the pages of his books and the purists fight against ebooks
and things are getting a bit confusing as teddy roosevelt barricaded the national parks with a shotgun in his hand
and i guess there’s a balance to everything i think as i type this poem on my wooden desk next to my wooden guitar
and my wooden furniture and we are nature too but we yell at wild animals for sneaking into our homes as the bark at us
for doing the same like the souls of native americans as we drive around colorado with bumper stickers that say “native” on them
and we were driving past emerson bridge down i-25 to 6th avenue and 6th avenue to i-70 through city traffic and then
we dove into the mountains because we were all starting to get cabin fever from sitting in the house all day and we needed
to get out so at six p.m. i ran around the house and i said to kathryn hey do you want to go for a drive into the mountains
and i said to logan hey do you want to go for a drive into the mountains and they said yes yes yes can we please
and we hopped in the car with our hiking boots on and a big jug of water and we listened to john denver and bobby dylan
as we moved along the mountain road beside the river like a crying child walking with their grandparents and we moved
at sixty-five miles per hour deeper into the rocky mountains and we rolled the windows down until we had to admit that
we were getting too cold and our ears were popping from the altitude so we rolled the windows back up and we turned on the air conditioning
the man-made wind and we listened to the beatles sing ob-la-di life goes on and we listened to the beatles sing there are places
i remember all my life though some have changed and i couldn’t stop thinking about emerson bridge as logan sniffled from his allergies
and kathryn had her feet out the window and people tried to cut me off like they were in a rush to get out of the mountains and i
just didn’t understand how you could be in a rush to get out of the mountains and i thought once again about emerson bridge and
about john muir getting mad when they built a chapel in yosemite because why would you need to put a church inside of a church
and we listened to the beatles singing about the fool on the hill watching the sun go down and we heard bobby dylan reminding us
that the answer is blowing in the wind and reminding us that we are his friend and i thought once again about emerson bridge as
we went through the eisenhower tunnel and we tried to hold our breath but we couldn’t but we tried we tried to defy our nature
but breathlessly we were reminded that you cannot defy your nature because your nature will win and weeds are always growing
always tearing the foundations of buildings to the ground as they build more buildings on top of the weeds and we live in the
most beautiful of hypocrisies we all live beneath emerson bridge and when we arrived in breckenridge we stepped out of the car
and we felt twenty pounds lighter and logan said yeah the air is lighter up here and i didn’t want to argue with him but that
wasn’t quite all of it for me it was more than that i had chipped off the concrete parts of my soul and walking around breckenridge
we didn’t run into the forest we went and found an ice cream shop and i had a scoop of ice cream in a cone and it was perfect
and the cabin fever was an hour and a half away and then we went back down back home and the beatles sang we are on our way home
and let it be and we crossed beneath emerson bridge and i didn’t even notice that we had crossed and the beatles sang let it be so i let it be.













Two years ago today, I started this blog, and it’s been two amazing years. 3000+ followers later, it is good to know that someone out there still reads and enjoys poetry. Lately I’ve been rekindling my love for poetry and blogging and, honestly, it’s been difficult. Finding a balance between work and life and poetry isn’t as easy as it seems but every like, every sincere comment and every view I get reminds me why it’s important. Whether it’s brilliance or bullshit, every word you say could be the one that someone needed to hear. I think where I would be without the words of my fellow bloggers, without Kerouac, without Bukowski, without Vonnegut, without local poets, without music, without my family and friends and random strangers and without everything that has ever been said to me and it amazes me. Every word I say on this page came from somewhere else, so thank you all for keeping the words coming.




"The Exploding Head of Don Quichotte" by Salvador Dali
“The Exploding Head of Don Quichotte” by Salvador Dali















i am sleepless and doped up on cough syrup and listening to boards of canada
i am still flip flopping between being a cowboy and a buddhist monk
but really i am flip flopping between being alive and being dead
between being a nice outstanding young man who is a good samaritan
a real back breaker, a real gem to society and then i’m being
a ghost haunting this town home, pacing through the halls flicking the lights on and off
working on my lurking skills because my lurking skills need work
writing poems about writing poems about writing poems
and sending them to christopher nolan and letting him know it will be the biggest thing
since inception

i dream within this dream within this dream
i moved around a lot as a kid and part of me thinks
that i really never stopped moving
but really and i mean really really
is it possible to stand still?

we are agents of chaos
we are geriatric children

i dream within this dream within this dream
and i pay mind to the beautiful eyes and i stop to unwind beside them
and i tell them i love them that i want them or need them and sometimes
they nod their heads and agree with me and sometimes the joy fades from their pupils
and i move on

i do not stay where i am not welcomed
i do not stay where love is finite
because my love is infinite like a giant bottle of shaken up soda
exploding across the cosmos

my love is john muir beneath a redwood tree
my love is going back in time to sylvia plath
to try and talk her down while she is preheating the oven

i dream within this dream within this dream
and i use to be afraid but i am afraid no more
fear is stupid
anger is stupid
and stupidity is just the way you feel
when nobody told you
what you now know
now that somebody took the time to tell you

i dream within this dream within this dream
and i live for this day and the one before it
and the one after it as i sit around with these
out-of-order days at the apogee space cafe together
drinking cosmic lattes and interstellar macchiatos
as we share a galactic biscotti