midday sun melts
like silk in thin limestone crevices

squint between
the folds of your
protect yourself

from the sand,
military presence
hidden in desert hills

destruction in the

a warm breeze
brings home the faint smell
of gold


contradictions are wonderful
bilateral conflictions
we see them within each other
but we cannot love it for ourselves

how are we so much in love,
for we are the same person,
yet we cannot stand our own reflections
in the mirror?


the art of pressing flowers
is all about preservation
to keep voluptuous blossoms
at their peak, forever

dry them, meticulously
lay them between pages
of old books, press memories
beneath the weight of Tolstoy

leave them, you will soon forget
to return to the obituaries
pages eaten up with mold,
petals that crumble to
the touch

a two dimensional bouquet
yet you have still preserved
nothing but ash

Memory Mines

cemeteries are always silent,
there is a certain hush that
arrives in death

I remember
you through my sense of

the waves in the air
vibrate in my head just
long enough to send me back
to that night with you:


aural necromancy,
let us dance to the cadence
of collecting memories


I Like The Way You Are
Both A Thunderstorm And
A Forest Fire At The Same Time
there is a storm of quiet
rain in your eyes
from a distance it is
streaks of heavy purple
on a mountain top
blue glaze that says, “hello
come along, my friend”
something warm in the
invitation, orange and brown
pulls you into frame
forests, acres, burned swiftly
in a single act of passion
flames lick everything
they can taste
to rebuild upon
black flats of


healing is
blood and bile
mucus and grime
it grips you, shakes you
like the unmistakable howl
of a forgotten dog
nothing is the same
everything has become
black and white
and cigarettes
by the time I see you again
my stomach lining will
have been stripped to nothing