My lovely beauty
Nimble and strong
Soft and slight
Alabaster skin
As white as moonlight

Her balance is keen
Legs and feet
Firm and lean
I wrap my arm ’round her calves
And hold her closer to me

My beautiful lover
Like a porcelain doll
I find the chair kicked below her
My screams ring through the hall
She’s there staring through me
As my phone makes the call
Like the best ballerina
Her feet never to fall



Find Me

I took some time to find myself
Like a traveler lost at sea
I hoped that others would be glad
To hear what I could see
But as I drifted far away
From love which could not be
I found my niche
For the moment
Lonesome consistency
Yet over time
I found my way
Right back to home from sea
What irony
What tragedy
There’s no one here for me


Damning those of little aspiration
Weighing identity and sexuality
Upon the capital of virility
Make something of nothing
Maintain everything
To be without direction
Is to be without privilage of life

Yet look to yourself
The insufficiency sprouting through others
Acclimating to the bitter blooms
Instead of nipping the bud
With stained knees, bound to the garden
See the world around you aflame
Yet should you fight the flames,
Your plants will die
Dried and ripe for kindling

What choice to we have
Sit and wait for immolation
Or foster the envy-green spite of others
Synthetic ignorance to the crawling flames
Directions are the vectors
Our feeble paths bouncing
Backtracking and crossing
While the borders retract

We call to the sky unable to break through
The parasol slowly closing
Around our butterfly wings
Keep your direction, I say
Smash your paper body to the fire
And feel the air sucked from your lungs
Breath and body tributed to our faults

You’ll find us in the center
Stoic and satisfied
Never frightened of what comes next
Let some flap and tumble,
Ignite and crumble,
Searching for their latent ideals

After all, the fluttering cools your burns
So they blister yet again
Over and over
Pain reborn minute by minute
All for nothing

While we motionless insects burn quickly
Wings stationary, already warmed
And as the flames come
We’ll be ready
The embrace not jarring, not a shock
A whisper
A butterfly’s whisper
Much louder than the shout
Of forced aspiration
And devastation

Favorite Book

Like a favorite book
Pages, like her skin
Soft, smooth, with melted ink floating
– Not upon –
But within the surface

Edges worn like the edges of a sword
Lethality and luster gone
Yet classical beauty and grace remain
Webbing between, never to cut
Our digits safely bound together

Crisscrossed leather bindings
Dyed, dried, and bleached
Like tears upon the text
Your spine, malleable and smooth
As I massage it between my fingers
Sigh softly and make the pages drift down
Momentarily suspended in anticipation

I fall deep into you
Have you at my side
While I run my thumb over your skin
Passing the time
Between each anticipated session
Of knowing what lies within you
Story as plain as day
Yet warm as simmering dawn

The shadows and shades
Of old words and worn page
Meet in the muted in-between
Of a wise and beloved tome
Inscribed with your name
And inside
All the same


Looking for a new future
Resting on a new home
A corpse sleeps inside the shuttle
While the orphanage burns below
So far away and so long to wait
Concerned with the air
And the weather
The nature of our second chance
Yet little do we know
That there is no such escape
We should have preserved
The only thing we seemed to deserve
And now we dream of the future
While our day-to-days escape us
500 light years away
And not a scrap of food