With real purpose

He’s about to change the world

If you let him.

Back arched
Salvaging our
He is peace
He is gravity

In his kingdom
There are no
To sweep the debris
From his path

Chases trash
Down the street
Runs it out of town
Makes it wish
It had never been born

Cannot figure out
How it all goes
It’s beginning
To climb itself

Eyes down
He just wants them
To see
What he has always seen.


salt beef on a
plain bagel,

hot mustard,
damp pickles,
I barely tasted
any of it.

the beef was tough,
the mustard stung
my fingers,
I wanted to cry some more
but didn’t have it
in me.

fuck the diet,
I want carbs.
I want fat and salty
I want my veins
to pump syrup
until that sugar coma
hits hard,
hits home
and then keeps on
throwing punches.

salt beef
that refused to shred
between my teeth,
mustard that stained
my shirt.
a faint heat that
threatened to distract me
for one sumptuous
but could not work its magic
on my coward soul.

Trampling Ground

And this ache refuses to leave

I have been a hospitable host
made up his bed,
turned down the sheets
each morning,

he has outstayed his welcome.

I have become a
trampling ground,
Dust settling
in my life line
where fates are fused.

crisscross my palm
and read me my
hope to die
if I cannot put my faith
in something,
other than myself.

And this ache refuses to leave

Refuted claims of love
replace the clockwork,
spring cleaned headspace
I try to keep
clean as spring water,
but muddied by my own

Morn-strewn bedsheets,
I have watched with
fearful intrigue,
Blowing dust
from my palms
where fates have focused
their fevered penance
on me,
and me alone.

And this ache refuses to leave.