If you’re not sure
then pause, wait
and listen to the sounds
of conscious—nothing—ness.

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If you’re not sure
then pause, wait
and listen to the sounds
of conscious—nothing—ness.

Listening in
on a socially
distant therapy
circle, I hear strange
certainty fading
with each spilled sip
of coffee, squandered
on psychosocial thoughts
in alignment with
the universe
always.

Halogen yellow bursts
of light, turn signals
burn bright, through
white lines of Topanga
Morning sunrise, her and I
up all night, we rise
like silhouetted tree
under the belly of LA sky,
gaze upon a sea of fog
clouds, shower faint
hallucinations of
spontaneous future
Travel

What is poetry, but
a language of the dead.
It’s an informal dance,
a shared cigarette.
Poetry is
but a one night stand.
It’s a wine ring left,
sheets, stained
between strangers.

Santa Monica
city street bum
sits, full lotus
thoughts rampant
running through
his charcoal beard
wild, I witness his
ecstasy in bloom.

I was never ready
but always willing,
unable to refuse
the volume of the moon.

All that I want now
is to see what’s just beyond
the other side
of that golden mountain range,
because I’m done with alleyways
and there’s nothing left behind.
He fell hopeful as the rain
in the bosom of her love,
while she gazed at the clouds
which seemed to shiver.

What looked like yesterday
out a kitchen window I saw
tomorrow and everyday
moving forward
as carefree as
a walk in the park.

It’s not the job that does a man in
but the off-days,
when he’s got the time
but still can’t find the reason.