The Beginning is Assuredly the End

i crack the spines of the books i read
page by page i bend back the paper
wrap it back around the book
like a snake eating its own tail
and chapter by chapter
it disappears

and the days of my life
they feel so very similar
to the flapping pages of a novel
very textual and dense
and then washed away
in a small silent wave

but nearing the end of it all
you come to find that the pages
which once seemed to ember
and disappear into the ether
never did

they are in fact still with you

and upon realizing the last period
of the last sentence
of the last chapter
of the last book you’ve read
closing in on itself

what you come to find is that book
is there in your hand
exactly the same as it’s always been
each page in the exact same order
like well-trained soldiers

but the spine is cracked
the covers worn in
white cracks and a slight curve
the book tries to open but doesn’t

and i find my spine is cracked too
and though i am the same
i am slightly more worn
and those words that i ate one at a time
stick to the sides of my stomach



for James Baldwin

there is this microphone wire
and we do not know clearly
where it started
but we’ve been
chasing after it now
for so long
static pace after static pace
fingers dry as the sun
cracked and worn thin
the microphone wire
traveling through our grip
as we heave and hoe
in pursuit
of something

this microphone wire
they say
leads to something
to a great microphone
for this audience
that just sits
but does not move
that observes
but does not help
like a terracotta army
that’s never fought in this war

and still we step on
tangle after tangle
some days
tripped up
wrapped in our own heads
in dreams deferred
our finger tips
so close to the electricity
we are mostly water
all of us

still we step
wire in hand
and they say it’s there
that someday we will arrive
and standing at the podium
we will sing a song together
that booms through
the ugly halls of time
and shines bright gold paint
in the cracks
the paint below remains
the pain in our feet
our hands as dry
as a raisin in the sun
and maybe we’ll realize
that you do not need an amplifier
and you do not need a microphone
in a room
that is intimate enough
for everyone to hear


Woman, Blue Hair

there’s a woman with blue hair sleeping in my closet
her clothes are on the floor the walls the ceiling
she plays me Leonard Cohen and Lady Gaga
and we sit in silence having conversations
her hair tied tight twisted she paints herself
and she lights a candle in the nucleus of my apartment
she speaks Leonard Cohen and Lady Gaga
and patiently she teaches me languages i’ve never dug from the cold ground

i asked her to come to Denver
and she arrived on my doorstep

she tells me that she’s staying here as long as she likes
she doesn’t apologize and she doesn’t need to

she makes me question god
and helps me find it in the thick rings of my tree

she sings like warcry and nirvana

and the mirrors are part of the conversation
the open books scattered like dead birds on the floor
the chair, the bookshelves

in this tiny room of an apartment there is a tangible physical representation in each minute detail of the war that wages in the confines of my mind and she enters in it unafraid and curious and lovely and lighting a candle in the nucleus of it all speaking Cohen and Gaga and sweet songs as i wake up into a new life with her unafraid as all hell



ants are crawling
in militant rows right across the range
of my two arms

fingers morphing intertwining
like crazy bamboo

a sharp stab of light

and in the thick mud
of this weekdream haze
no one says hello or goodbye

the robots
have made us into robots
you are what you eat

you are what you eat
you sing what pains you
while you’re dreaming still you breathe

and dynamite
giant sticks of self-lighting dynamite line the halls
the interior of my skull

the wallpaper
tacky and outdated

the chinese lamps
swinging like chemicals

the american dream
boxed up and sent down the nile

and you, dear lover
where the hell are you
i was promised
i was promised so many times
over and over
a white boy’s dream

the ants dig in
and burrow deep into my dusty liver
make home in my kidneys

fire ants
red helmets and eyes
government operative spies come to sink in
and make chaos
where once a sweet bassinet rocked

the wallpaper
tacky and outdated

the television
paused on the image of a scared mob

the television
paused for four years
on loud static

the television
muted on a talk show
one million tiny bulbs
commercial enlightenment

the television knows a lot of things i do not
the television jammed on the nightly news
on the news and entertainment
on the news and entertainment

every now and then
the class at large raises their hands collectively
and decides what reality we’re going to try out for a while
what mold of human gelatin we will adhere to

black or red
spin wheel spin

i’ve lost one hundred pounds in the last five days

i’ve read nine hundred books in my dreams

i’ve lost a sense of self and truth and reality

this ambient dream
this color wheel
these vivid 3d images
sincere sounding conversations
the realistic smells
even the size of the map itself
a person could really get lost in this
this ambient dream

i guess you’d have to have been there

when the wall fell down
when the chains went up
a swift change of guard
in the middle of the graveyard shift
if you blinked you might have missed it

at least love
dripping sweet puppy love
two humans eternally speaking in code
until the code breaks down
and the reality grows unfamiliar

the television
playing the same movie on repeat all day
i catch segments here and there

the television
learning how to browse the internet

the television
broadcasting ten million game shows all at once

the internet
this land is your land
this land is my land

the size of my apartment shifts from time to time
600 square feet/500 square feet/50 square feet

and then 4000 square feet and i’m jumping on
the trampoline in my backyard with my two daughters
and my labradoodle Andy and a heavy dose of antipsychotics

while you’re dreaming still you breathe

there it is
a solid does of euphoria
i am plucking berries off the nihilism tree

and the berries are sweet and delicious

and in the thick black blood of heartache a ship saves you from drowning

and there it is
the sunlight peering through the blinds
catching a human unknowingly in a state of nirvana
the realization that nirvana is all around us
that it belongs to no one person
and that it belongs to every one person
in congruence

in Congruence, there is a tree at the center of town
and the people go and visit it and leave blank canvasses at its stem
and the tree, in the night, in the rain, paints these portraits
these brilliant portraits that capture the day better than any asshole poet
they stamp time and experience
they bottle memory

in regards to bottled memory,
and the power of remaining through time
stonehenge is the closest thing to god
and also just a bunch of random rocks

i see it when i sleep
a collection of stars rotating around the earth

while you’re dreaming still you breathe

and i smile down on you this day
and next day and each day and through
the years of darkness we will stop and say
we loved through this all
and we survived to this moment like stonehenge
the closest thing to god



i am not a bottle of pills

i am not some sort of
orange plastic container
that you can pull out of your bag
when you are having a bad day
or a breakdown

friendship is not a pair of crutches
that leans on each other

i have hunter in my bones
though there is less blood in my water each day
i do not look to you

i am not built to be a mirror


so sit beside me
and together tucked in the bushes
we can stare out onto the planes

but you cannot swallow me
i am not drugs

i change too rapidly

i am not claustrophobic
i just like to change rooms
when a door opens

i am not afraid of heights
i just mend my wings before i fly

and when i fall
i crack six ribs as i hit the ground
and i am out
sometimes for months at a time
lost in dreams
and on the backs of nightmares
pushing through jungles
balancing on the hands of a clock
that cannot tell time

and when i arrive
i am glad to see your bright shining face
and i realize you were the sun peeking through the trees
all along

but we are not pills
and if we continue to pressurize ourselves
into tiny capsules
that promise to shake away the haze of life
we will all need disclaimers the length of constitutions

i am not a bottle of pills
but i love you
and if you need someone to listen
never don’t ask



and how the lights will turn around on you
and in shining procession do they fall
in the spring the blooming eyes of custom
winter raises spirits until its call

crystal glasses clinking almost shatter.
they do. she says it so you hear her words
ringing to the back. a car parked at her
request outside. cans hang down to the curb.

liquor pours forever or so it seems.
the night proceeds and proceeds into haze
and sweet surrender and unspoken dreams
so goes the night. so goes the coming days.

watch the sincere glimmer through all your rites
and keep another on those shining lights



I am wearing a tuxedo and listening to Boards of Canada in my bathtub. I have set my television on top of the toilet seat and unplugged my electric razor to free an outlet to plug it in. I tune the television set over to a news station and The President’s face flashes before me. The television still on mute, Boards of Canada still playing, I watch the squabbling motions of the mouth as a blue banner across the bottom of the screen informs me of another closed door. I myself have closed the bathroom door and locked it. I have taken large pieces of wood and strategically nailed them to the door of the bathroom to ensure I am safe from the flat planet on the other side and it from me. In the bathroom stall at Sputnik, somebody wrote Make Stabbing Nazis Great Again. I hold a strong fist for non-violence but I fear that if I release the grip of my fingers I may find a dead butterfly in my palm. I hear a door slam shut in Wyoming. My cellular phone is ringing but I am too shattered on the tail end of a coffee high to gather myself to answer it. A cuckoo clock tweets. Boards of Canada continues to play. My cell phone rings again. My yellow home telephone rings as well. I could not be bothered to move. My hotline phone rings. I have opened my window to let a winter breeze in and outside of my window I can hear a nearby payphone ringing. Every phone on this flat planet is ringing. The President continues to move his marionette mouth. The television set remains muted and even if it were not, the sound would be drowned out by Boards of Canada and the ten billion phones ringing on the other side of the door which I have boarded up in case of anything. I have nightmares but I just try to fall asleep when I do. One phone is ringing for your state senator. The invisible voice on the other line recites a love poem about tolerance. The line stutters and turns to a solid beep before the voice of a robot operator speaks and requests that you try your call again. Another person leaves another voicemail. A slave song. A song that would sing the body electric but it is cast on the other end into an ocean where the electric sting fizzles out and is ultimately swallowed by spineless jellyfish. For a split second, I escape my tuxedo and my bathtub and I think about the purple lipstick kiss that you left on my kitchen cabinet. I imagine what it must be like to have time to love another human being the way that the marrow in our bones so desires. Another phone rings. It is my dear friend Cathy asking me if I will be marching for equal pay and I say no. I have to work that day. Jessie asks me if I will be marching for affordable housing and I say no. I’ll be working my second job that day. The bathroom door seems to shake and I have a heart attack and I recover. I pull my heart out of my chest, wind it, and put it back in. I ponder if the door really did shake. I place my ear to it and on the other side of the door I hear the breathing of a police officer in riot gear. I can hear the condensation of his breath on the curved clear mask that surrounds his face. I start to wonder if this is real or imaginary. I reenter the bathtub, having another heart attack while fact checking if there is in fact a police officer in riot gear on the other side of the door. I check multiple websites that a website told me are credible websites. They point to yes. I still hear the police officer’s breathing beneath every phone through time ringing and beneath Boards of Canada performing an electronic composition based on the ethereal horror of 1970s horror films. I realize I may be in a 1970s horror film. I stand up and look in the mirror and my tuxedo has become an evocative dress spattered in blood. I am now the main female protagonist in any of several slasher horror films. I look at the blue bags beneath my hollow eyes. I look at my barely covered breasts. I realize that I have not slept in several days as I am being chased by a man with a giant knife. He shakes the door. I retreat into the shower and curl into the fetal position. Closing my eyes I hear the ringing phones again. Beneath the sounds of the ringing phones I cannot hear America singing. I see three little girls in glittered red white and blue dresses dancing at an inauguration. I taste the bloody residue of a hamburger on my tongue. The sink drips. Each drop an unfulfilled promise. A window appears on the wall. I watch as a singular brown leaf levitates up to the branch of a tree out the window. The leaf turns golden. The leaf turns bright green. A dedicated army of leaves follow suit levitating up back onto the tree. A return to their parents’ home. I watch a boy on a bicycle drive by out the window in reverse right to left. I watch as a demolished building becomes undemolished. It is a big box store. I watch as the big box store brick by brick is unassembled. Construction workers use their crane to pull steels bars out of the sky and back onto the ground in piles. Slowly the buildings disassemble. Smoke goes back into giant cylinders. A park with trees. Winter Fall Summer Spring. The sun sets and then rises. Cars drive by backwards. It is all so fast. A toddler walks, then crawls, shrinking back into a newborn baby. A mother drives with her newborn baby to a hospital and doctors work carefully to put the baby back inside of her. Each day she shows a little less. I watch a political bill, a mainsail, disappear one letter at a time. I watch bathrooms relabeled colored and white. I watch a painter paint over a black president with white. Back in the bathroom the drips from the fountain float upward, scared they return to where they were. I see refugees fleeing peace for war. I am alone. I pant like a dog. I sweat like an intelligent woman in a Russian cathedral. My hands brittle. Sledgehammers pulling back bricks. Walls being built. Dominoes. Flowers fold up into buds. The television turns to static. It disappears. I unboard the bathroom. I disassemble my one bedroom apartment in Denver. I drive to Aurora. Police cars outside of a movie theater. I drive to Aurora. I kiss my girlfriend goodbye and then lay on the bed where we make love depressed as all hell and wondering where we’ll be when the sun stops rotating around this flat planet.


Denver Poetry Open Mic!

On Sunday, January 15th at 8 PM, I will be hosting a poetry open mic in Denver at Mutiny Information Cafe. Hope to see you all there. Feel free to share this info however you’d like.

Link to the Facebook Event page HERE.



there is something sad about today and that is okay
the sun decided to sleep in
the cars they don’t move quickly down their thick lines
the news radio is solemn and uninteresting
in the shower i found myself staring at the drain for way too long
catching up on silly thoughts in my mixtape head
and that is okay
this is all okay

the dynamic of human emotion is dynamic
the hedonists maybe will be filled with disappointment on this one
but not every day is a party
maybe today was the day i was designed to count the sidewalk blocks
as i walked by hundreds of displaced human beings attempting to sleep in the entry ways of local business shops

it is a mistake to think your existence is one of exuberant joy
your existence is rocket ship, yes, probably
but so many tiny broken hands pieced together your engine
so many people stood around just to watch you launch

it only makes sense if you acknowledge the collective experience of us all
maybe god is the devil and humanity has to be its own god
we still haven’t figure out how to combat natural disasters
we still haven’t figured out the most efficient and effective methods of loving one another

so if there is something sad about today then that is okay
this dream is far too valuable to be perfectly utopian
let’s just try to keep our rocket ships directed toward whatever it is above us now
that we find so valuable



These paintings walked around so sick of it all.
“This one is so damn traditional,” said the painting, on the observation of a preacher in his Sunday’s best, “I just don’t know what to even think of it. It doesn’t challenge me, it doesn’t provoke me, I feel like I’ve seen this trope a million times over.”
“Okay,” said another painting, “But at least it makes sense. This one is so abstract.”
The painting referenced a human in torn denim, purple lipstick, probably thirty overall piercings and ‘daddy issues’ tattooed on its chest.
“It’s so abstract,” said the painting, “I feel like this human is trying too hard to make a statement, but the statement itself isn’t that strong.”
On the other side of the human gallery, another painting just stared at a different human, completely consumed. The painting was encapsulated by it. It felt as if time were standing still and moving so quickly, all in the same instant.
The human had his hands tucked in its acid wash jeans. It wore a white v-neck t-shirt and smoked cigarettes like that was its core function. Pretty standard Americana kind of thing going on, but he had these absorbing greyish blue eyes that the painting couldn’t look away from. The eyes were in motion. Like some great thunderstorm traveling slowly across an evening sky.
The painting felt something it had never felt before. It was as if the human was alive. As if buried behind those stormy sky eyes was a soul desperately reaching out, trying to connect.
“They say art is dead,” said the painting, “But this. This is alive.”