Bad Poems

The only bad poems

are the ones we don't finish

uncut threads

are worse than singed hems

a period better than


a pointless cliffhanger.

Poetry is sentences 

without scaffolding,

thoughts in the wild,

plot points in captivity,

metaphors aggressive

as the rasping 

of a nervous poet into a mike,

the audience smothered in darkness


Sleeping, words dream,

waiting to assemble

into something that only makes sense

to the soul

or to the mind

but not always both.

To dismiss poetry as bad

is to say dreams

don't train us for what's to come.

They serve an instinctual purpose

to help the species survive

the disasters it cannot yet imagine. 

Close Approach

I grew up thinking destiny

was the same as believing

in God,

but I never

divorced faith 

from fate.


People circle back to one another

but orbiting bodies look, don't touch

we're all fly-bys

waiting for collisions that may never come


and when they do, we never expect

that we will be weak enough to fragment

but our force is

stronger than our bodies,

our push stronger than our pull.


We are controlled by magnetic poles,

our left brain's ice

our right brain melts.

We risk freezing or drowning

our whole world,

but did we like it the way it was?

We crawl like Noah's grateful creatures

aboard the fragments floating away,

and this is why

we think orbiting

the same loves, the same lives

over and over again

is destiny.

On Timing Thoughts in Thoughts


How many times can we write

about a single




It feels like infinity, but

that is not true.

Your ink will run out 

faster than your heart.

your hands will tire 

faster than your mind.



What if time was measured in thoughts?

Then it would be 5,000 thoughts

since I last told you

I loved you, and it will take millions more

to ever forget,

because thoughts live as long as universes,

some parallel and shrinking,

others alternate and expanding.


Bodies Undone

In love

there is hunger and sleeplessness

and in love

there is fullness and deep dreams.

in love there is no space

for being in between,

love is always neither and both.


It coerces you just like the body

to live and die, grow and fester,

an intricate algae on a deep cool pond

whose depths we think we can guess.


In love,

we think we deserve better

and know we deserve less,

and it's rarely the other way around.

We know something's raw

the moment we bite into it.


We sear, we skim, we peel

away to expose something that is really

the same thing above and underneath.

Love is the whole animal,

but staring it in the face makes us so scary hungry

that we must get to what's underneath,

until the blood runs out, the moss is all cut clean

the bodies all undone

with a few squeezes and scrapes of our knives.