from greek
defined as being “beyond.”

also from greek,
meaning “to carry.”

a metaphor
is something carried beyond.

or maybe
something beyond carrying.

for example:

is a bullet that never stops
being fired


is the noise beneath
the constant sound
of screaming.


to help give life
to something
by comparing it
to something

a name in itself
can be
a metaphor

Emmett Till.

Trayvon Martin.

you see,
history repeats itself
and you could say
is a metaphor
except sadly
it’s not.

it is literal.

has recently been
reclassified to mean
as well as


have for so long now
been misusing
the world literally.

literally 50 people
die from gun violence
in japan each year.

literally 10,000 people
die from gun violence
in america each year.

this has literally
got to stop.

this is un like
anything else.

there is no
cute comparison.

there is no place
for figurative language
when escaping reality
is the easiest thing to do.

this is a truth
that is beyond question.

this is a fact
that is well documented
in the esophagus
of every endless
news feed.

this is what we

this is what
we put on our tongues
like daily communion.

this is heavier
than metaphor.


is a weight

that is beyond




i still feel crystal oceans turned to currents in your moon
i tried to hold the door for you but let it close too soon
i wonder where you are tonight beneath this open sky
i wonder if we’ll meet again the next time that i die

i wake to find no peace of mind but constant broken churning
lighting fights with gasoline and fleeing while they’re burning
and from a broken mountaintop looking down on what i’ve done
i’ll come to see, but way too late, that i am not the sun

and i am not the one who’s come to mend these broken bones
but i hope these watered words will drop on broken homes
and be a sweet reminder that there’s life inside each cell
and every single drop of rain has part in dousing hell

and hell is something that i’ve seen but just in flickered frames
safely from the audience, i snack on secret shames
i cry, i sing, i laugh along but when the credits roll
i find it’s time to go to sleep and off to sleep i go

and in my dreams i see your face, it’s smiling like the day
and like the dream and like the sky, it’s quickly gone away
i’m left to find my single self left staring at the man
who stares right back and blinks with me and follows hand to hand

and in this mirror where i stare i see my beard grown long
as my skin begins to wrinkle i can feel my heart grow strong
and the soul left stirring in my eyes still has time to boil
i reap the seeds of loneliness and plant them in the soil

and from this empty plot of land will grow my poetry
but so far it’s just branches so we’ll have to wait and see
if i can push up daisies from the lazy underground
and sprout new leaves to catch the breeze and mirror back its sound

we’ll see if this is possible, and what becomes of you
never in my presence, but forever in my view
if nothing else, the breeze is there, i feel it in my leaves
and if you ever stop to feel, i know you’ll feel it too



so pretty the roads that lead to nowhere
so handsome the dim sky in winter
the grey snow on the sides of highways
the trash and needles in abandoned buildings

so unforgettable are the eyes that poured into yours
some great transference of sad souls before splitting like atoms
so beautiful the squirming amoeba beneath the microscope
beauty in the smoke that rises from the trainwreck

beauty in the heart that cringes up and stops
beauty in buildings collapsing in slow motion
there is beauty inside the reels of fast motion too
when you blink and the hand reaching out is gone

so pretty a dream achieved and the silence thereafter
a standing ovation a wind-down an empty auditorium
a bus packed full of strange people who do not exist
a walk up the stairs to the hanging rope of a table
with only one chair

so beautiful are we the chorus of the slowing dying
so strong the song we sing as we rock our own cradles
as we dress our own wounds as we dance the way
that we are supposed to dance at a funeral

we humanity are supposed to dance at a funeral
we’re supposed to dance on hot coals and cold beds
we are supposed to dance over the ghosts in voicemails
the dark flowers that bloom when we’re never ready

we are never ready to be thrown against so much beauty
we never think that we will be the victims of so much love
we never think that we will be the victims of so much love



wherein my tongue rolls out before me
like a great delicate scroll of paper
like a languid love letter yellowed with time
each syllable a worm digging through my stomach

and the crows come along
and they pick at my lengthy tongue
each one snagging a small segment
of my soft pink honesty

my raw delicate marriage to uncertainty

and when the crows have had their fill
i cross the warped floorboards
of my crooked house
teetering on the top of a thin mountain

wherein i roll my tongue back up
into the hardware of my guts
the strange wiring of my innards
where sparks fly like desperate traffic
at an intersection

and in my jaded bed i dream

i dream of a reality where i do not question
the period beneath my question marks
where the laws all make sense
and more than strange suggestion

i dream in worlds where the bleeding hearts bleed

a great still lake where each and every pixelated
square is covered by handcarved canoes

and when ever the wind blows through
the canoes move in succession like music
and the storms come and the storm passes
and when it’s all over the canoes sit still

never having to flinch at a raised hand
or a dark comment or a loud voice
just canoe after canoe on a vast quiet lake
moving in succession like music
through time and space
through grey thought and afterthought
my soft tongue rolled out before me



my sweet christmastime love
you are the north star burning
anchoring my heart to your light
you are the fireplace that wraps around me
warming my soul my fleeting feelings
that everything won’t be okay
you are the hand i hold
the sky i see when i close my eyes
i want nothing more than to lay beside you
on cold winter nights in the cocoon
of lovers making sunlight
through the longest nights

the words fall short
there is no way to say
the things i feel so deep inside
so in hopes of expressing
what i cannot
here is a $25 gift card
to buffalo wild wings
i love you




I’ve always wanted to do something like this, so I’m going to start light. I like writing at someone else’s prompt. I used to hate it, but after writing a lot of poems you start to learn your own tricks and themes and sometimes it feels like you’re writing the same poems again and again. (Good chance to write something completely outside of your comfort zone, in my opinion.)
Anyways, I would like to say, if anyone is interested, send me an email at and tell me a little bit about the poem you would like for me to write. Could be just one word, a theme, a style, anything is fine. Just give me some kind of prompt. I am going to choose my five favorites and mail out poems to those folks. I can’t wait to see what you guys come up with and see how this goes. I’ll keep it open for one week! So send your requests on over! This should be fun.

Please include your mailing address! Can’t wait!



are we so quick to forget
what happened yesterday?
we walk
right foot left foot
one behind the other
in swift reverse
after each step we take
the broom and dust pan
and wash away
our footprints from
the dirt

we take bleach
and ammonia
and we wash the blood
from the carpet
we scrub vigorously
at the vivid reminder
of that one time
that we blacked out
and did some shit
we shouldn’t have

we got so drunk

wouldn’t you hate
for us
to get drunk again?

a contraption!
a mirror put behind
our backs
so that when we look
behind us
all we can see
is the future

is the pill
of the future

it’s what
we wash our mouths out

it’s what
lulls us to sleep
beneath the sound

well, you know
you can hear it

if you just know
that you could die
at any minute

so where
are we?

do we now
to be?

can we go
when we live
on the hollow point?

we dip
our calloused feet
an acid bath

we bingewatch
the deathclock ticking

now packaged

priced to sell

i forgot what we were
talking about

must have slipped
my mind



the second hand
pacing circles around
the room

tapping like
an unwelcome stranger
at the window

caffeine blood
paint shaker hands
brain squeaking
against the anxious walls
of the skull

crossed legs
across wooden church benches
high heel hanging
off an impatient edge

you’re in the
crosshairs of tongue
pushed through
pursed lips

you’re in the
back corner of the random room
tied to a plastic desk
not listening
sipping free coffee

when did your fingertips
become so cold?
so foreign in open air

you retreat to the dark
now who is in the crosshairs
binge watching memories
that you never experienced

virtual realities

the wine pours freely
you watch the meter ticking
gallon after gallon
until your tank transfers
from E to F

baby steps

sore in places
you never knew you
could be sore in
bones dry
soul rattling in its cage

chaotic dust
left by footprints

a growing fire
an unhinged craving for salt

the world becomes
one million missed opportunities

there’s a fine line
that runs like nails on skin
between charm
and desperation

and then eventually
it drains like a bathtub

you       naked
lying helpless and lost
marinating in
electromagnetic radiation
as the faucet just