Selected Poetry

Phone call 2

I hope God is listening

On the other line

But it’s only static

On the other line

Hello, I say

Hello, I hear

But it’s only me.

Junk mail

Junk mail

Nothing but junk mail

In my mailbox

I send it back

But they return it

They always return it

Mortal Sound

The ringing in my ears has ceased;

Three days away from the soundscape

That you call a city:

The siren. The train horn. The terror.


All that ensues from beneath the sewer

Rips my flesh and sends me to the street

Where I make my way through the crowd

Not knowing why, where, or what--


What is this? This slowly pulsing heartbeat

One which I never was aware of

The silence and the stillness

Form a portrait in the way of the soundscape.


Out here I hear the rustling of the trees:

Speaking to me from their roots

They know the silence and inner peace

One treasures in exile from the rumbling street.

A Mere Fragmentation 
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A moment I can’t stop reliving

Get out of my skull you bastard!

The one who ravished my soul

Until it caught aflame 

I know the spiders will stream down

The long tunnel of hope and wisdom for me

And sing for me

I can keep replaying



The hideous scenes as if it were a film

Why did this happen to me!

Nature is horrendous in its subtle ways

Lurking in the darkest corners are lurkers

Stay away from these depths

Press the pause button

Press the rewind button

If only.

All that is possible would be impossible

All that has been done would be undone

You nor I would sit here

Instead we’d be a universal thought

Previously conceived by the universe

And forever enslaved to time. 

Prisoner of war

The TV is in front of me

I’m shackled to the floor

Hands bound together

Chain through the loop on the floor

Cannot turn my face away

Future is in front of me

Never have I seen the light

Never have I stroked the cat

The foam will be forever

Freely flowing from my mouth

And I’ll be choking, gagging

I know they’ll turn off the TV

When I die

I know they’ll change the channel

When I have to go to the bathroom

But here I shall remain in protest

Watching the TV

And shackled to the floor

As a prisoner of war

Meditation gardens

Under this tree;

Below this sanctuary

We sit with our eyes closed

Not moving a muscle

Only fixated on the breathing

That lifts our spirits to the heavens;

I am a poor man.


So peaceful

So -- serene.


Perhaps this is not

As blissful a place as I thought:

Ladybugs await their doom

Tangled in the spiderwebs above me.
Perhaps (it seems) their meditations 

Have not been answered;

I sicken myself often.

There is a clown

There is a clown

Laughing in my head

Every twenty seconds

Bringing me to my knees

In prayer for him to cease

          But he won't.

Bringing me to binge

Poisonous waters that taste

Like sour fruit and destroying

My insides with ferocity: no mercy.

Hopefully these splitting head pains

Will come to a halt like a train pushing

Its brakes at the very last minute before

Decimating a broken down truck on the tracks.

Or maybe the person in that truck chose to be hit.

Either way, the train did not stop in time.

The clown has stopped laughing for all eternity.