longing for firework flares at the lost boys’ campsite

except I forgot all the directions before straight on til morning

and it’s not exactly something you can pop into google maps


so I’m an adult outcast like robin in hook

grown up in a world never made for a soul like mine

ground up like molars on right-angle words

like mortals on coils never-never ageless

or morals on money or even only the idea of money 

who herself is an idea, if not some modern deity


bitten back a thought better embittered

since seeding we have our plants so closely scrutinized

like knowing the time but not the quartz inside it, or like

believing in 401K widget stonks but not the power to fly


so if in seeing you

and making another world with our words, I seem free

like talking to a passionate child about any mystic nightlight

know that you are the star where I finally made a correct turn

    know that here in new neverlandia I’m home to my true self




like all aspects of magick, psychology and unconscious mind

operating always (if not within your awareness then without it)


(whether or not you agree to consciously recognize their power

or their profound effects) so for the most mundane the solution

is simply to dream, and cheese can help even the most stoic

find new illuminating truth within their nightly visions


the whole thing is really very simple like writing or anything else

start with your favorites and expand your taste from there daily

with dinner, that part is of particular importance for dreaming

(though more general consumption of cheeses of course

can’t hurt even in the form of comedy since our darkest fears

require always the sacrifice of our solemnity in the form of a sacred giggle)


at first there may be a field or a forest (if you’re lucky it will be known to you

a space you feel comfortable in the dark and the wood where you are safe)


there may be lights along the treeline and deep into the mossy valley.

follow them. don’t wonder or worry about it too much. after all, 

you’re only dreaming. some people call them faeries, the lights that is

but ultimately calling them anything but friendly is a common mistake

(which is of course why I’m warning you in advance)

if you manage to be polite they’ll show you the river

if you fuck up before you get there I’m not sure how to help either

all fair warnings in advance. but didn’t you say you were itching

for a glorious adventure?


the river can take you anywhere you’ve been and anywhere you’ll ever go

stadiums, glass malls, towers and renaissance towns

fields, forests, circuses and glittering cities

find another river to get back again

ask the lights if you get lost

it really is that simple


(oh, one last thing. If the cities are falling apart, repair them.
If you see an airplane, don’t get on it. your world is mutable,

requiring your presence to exist. just trust me on that one)

(and I almost forgot! this is the most important, so don’t forget,

if you see the dark obsidian stone citadel on a barren mountain,

if the sky is dark and cracking apart from an electrical storm,
go back the way you came and RUN. sure, The War is a lie

always has been, always will be, but we die regardless. I mean

probably not you, right, but just to be safe. it’s only a dream after all.)




that damn puffy vest was cool for five minutes in the 90’s

when bulma broke up with yamcha on toonami

let’s face it folx aliens are always hotter to a supposed sapiosexual 

human makeup is unevolved if you ask danhausen or gwarsenio hall

I’m so sorry officer, was I making spaghetti too loudly? 

(that damn shapiro snitching again you can bet your desert panties)


dawn in a frozen forest and you’re like wait, this morning isn’t fanfiction

I did remember shoes when I left the house, very nice, very good

that was always a pet peeve when it came to kids in adventures like

really little dude you didn’t think to change out your pajamas? 

or were you just not planning on becoming a protagonist?

(hate to break it to you but it rarely is a choice even retrospect)


mist revealing freeza or bigger dragon balls on another planet

like when we find out the gods get upgrades too

or how when I really thought about my depression

I remembered saiyans get stronger every time they almost die

shifting the fireside story with the zeal of the zeitgeist

faeries becoming demons becoming aliens and no one bats an eye

maybe we were always down a drone or two for the true view of the forest

(knowing neither our roots nor our grey halo before a crown of satellites)

FOUNDATIONAL PRACTICE (a prayer) – Hour Twenty-One (2021)



earthen and so often overlooked

not a thought past our doormat 

unless we’re calling for a broom


Dirt! Ground! Soil! Clod! Sod! Turf! Loam!

never held us on a pedestal with You looking up

but You / supporting us wordless / demanding so little


Mother Gaia of the mountains, forests, plains and gardens

may we never grow weary in wonder of your raw abundance

remembering the root of our meal / where-so-ever be our table

BLUES BUELLERS – Hour Twenty (2021)



                 how often does the train come by?

headlamp glinting off a silver moon river

sign slow blinking red-red-red for the ATV idiots


chugging slow low rolling steel wheel thunder

through the stricken trees along electric lake


I come crunching dark gravel pebbles in lieu of homework

                      static starlight tangled in the street lamps

craving early ice cream frozen hillside rural suburbia

it’s sleepy here and the shops are long since closed


listen with a loving heart and become another radio

open source airwaves by the cover of another night


blues belushi doesn’t notice the train or any relative silence

even streaking with the lights and roar neither do I anymore

wandering and watching jealous of an unalterable destination

MOTION BLUR MURAL – Hour Nineteen (2021)



I could write this piece as a landscape

where it’s always dawn or dusk

                                    never night or noon

where it’s flat and mountainous

where it’s grassy and rocky

where the cliffs are worn away by water

where the sand was forged of the cliffside

infinity’s hourglass / roaring shore / tiny beads of release


oh shit you meant like a portrait of the poet?

that one’s a watercolor rainbow in profile

looking lost in thought out over the water


wondering when I’ll grow into my voice

wondering when I’ll grow out of my tits

and then there’s you, asking why I didn’t choose vice

as if a moral judgement on my body would purify me?

are you actually asking me to tell you who I am?

can’t I just side with Eliot here and say the person

who began this poem is not the person who will end it?

BUT DON’T CALL IT MASKING TAPE – Hour Eighteen (2021)

CONTENT WARING: mental health, incarceration





right up front for the brutal truth

there’s only one difference between prison

and the psych ward

and it’s the cafeteria offerings

the slunking whispers are the same

the blank bright hallways and gleaming fixtures

dinginess and long hallway flickering lights

just enough to gaslight an average man

so she said there’s a strict no cuddling policy

and I said honey I get it I’m crazy not stupid


here we are for your horrified amusement

the black-eyed children of the new millennia

we’ll consume your crime scene tape

wailing another older kind of siren

where instead of either soulless cell

I imagine that brightness is the seaside

where I’ll wake up next to you

on another cloud deeper in double digits

where I want to hear every passing thought

behind your eyes and your reserving smirk


so I pretend with the rain that I’m hearing sand and waves

imagine you wrap your arms around me and the color returns

and I’m left with no desire for anything

except to be here, to just be still, and listen


CONTENT WARNING: S**c!de & mental health




so we take a jumping off point with an image of a bridge

there was a time when I would have walked off for the familiarity

that’s some dark humor like dark chocolate to cut another flavor


so books are safer than other people but I got tired of being safe

and if you won’t accept ADHD as my excuse to skim the text

well OK Boomer I hope the stand-in will serve you for minimum wage

we’re sick because we’re too smart to be well in a world like this

in a way I was addicted mostly to danger and to the thought

that I could die without having to mean it or even feel sure


I even used to say it wasn’t that I wanted to die per se

I just wanted to sleep forever away from my own pain

But when I was on the bridge and I called Ben he brought me home

and when Ben was done and he called me when he was ready to fall

it turned out I didn’t know any of the right magic words after all

because my spells originated only in my mind

and the construction of love is indifferent to reason

both of us begging, let me be lonely but not invisible


in my dreams the highway loops into a freeform rollercoaster

where I’m sure now there’s work left to do, at least between the two of us

                                   grief is only a vehicle for the ones who survive

RETINAL SCAN GALAXY – Hour Sixteen (2021)



an entire life lived in reverse might include a detail like finding your sight

                                    before you even knew you were missing it

oddly enough no one knows their world’s not fuzzy til they see its edges

I remember gasping in wonder at the individuated leaves on autumn trees

I remember pointing with delight at an ordinary sparrow on a branch

an entire world had just unfolded so far away from my fingertips

where only physicists and astronomers could grasp the complexity of my joy

stars and atoms receding into an infinite mandala of mess and meaning

like the fruit or flowers which had just been impressions of color 

                                                                                                                    on a far-away tabletop

monet and lilies for an ordinary suburbia through my nearsighted eyes

so sometimes in the dark or while driving I still practice with my hands

the sight that only my fingertips and palms can understand

how each object holds its edges a certain way, with a certain firmness

or softness, how the pieces of a lighter fit together and the metal is smoother

how a lighter feels nothing like mascara, how mascara feels nothing like a pen

which feels nothing like lipgloss, in spite of being only an assortment of plastic tubes

how each of these are known first to the hand without the eye’s mediation

how our eyes teach us an arbitrary sensation for every object we hold

how a pack of cigarettes is never mistaken for a wallet or vice versa

one delight devoid of color folded in the firmament of the body’s baggage


a sphere alone to ten thousand uses

overlooked in a tragically literal sense

DHARMA DUMBSAINT – Hour Fifteen (2021)



present in reverent witness to the opportunities of life

where I have said no, I have no regrets

my visceral intuition another language I learned in the dark


so where there were paths, I explored them

so where doorways appeared, I ventured through


the YES of my sacred surrender pulling my forward

(when the Irish bless your back with wind, this is what they mean)


not a knowing but an unknowing from the very root

where bliss becomes the space between who knows and show me

where faith is the space between your pain and what you do with it


so do you too hear that song which opens every rusted lock?

when you feel your own chains falling away will that be enough?

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