Therapy Circle

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.

Los Angeles, Westwood

Topanga

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

October. Topanga Beach

Poetry

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.

Ryan and Jessica, 2011

yourself and happiness

The only road block

between yourself

and happiness,

is you.

Mural, Santa Monica.

Ecstasy in bloom.

Santa Monica

city street bum

sits, full lotus

thoughts rampant

running through

his charcoal beard

wild, I witness his

ecstasy in bloom.

Mural, Santa Monica.

Dying in her arms I’m happy

I see my reflection

through the tangles

from the window

of her eye, suppose

she’s figured out the angles

I’ve been playing,

oh but she’s the kind of femme fatale

worth saving, because lately

there’s a wall built higher than my own good

for, protection

oh but how it all comes crumbling down

the instant, she walks in

where dying in her arms I’m happy

Mural, St. Pete

The volume of the moon

I was never ready

but always willing,

unable to refuse

the volume of the moon.

Morning. Key West. 2020

Life’s worthwhile

Every single day

She reminds me

Life’s worthwhile

The other side

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.

Bosom of her love

He fell hopeful as the rain

in the bosom of her love,

while she gazed at the clouds

which seemed to shiver.

Key West Florida