The Measurements For Love

A heart’s radius of less than three feet at all times for forty-six and one half perfect hours.
It’s black rooms, black shirts, black couches, black skin and black cars.
It’s gin, green beans, Gerber daisies, Nebraska license plates, car songs, burgers and the jarring fresh scent of Eucalyptus.
It’s honesty and trust and laughter and fear.
It’s tremendous weight and chandelier quiet.
It’s the world slipping away or shrinking or both.
It’s being forcibly crowned, fight-wrestling with its gold and diamonds, then letting it sit on your head despite its uncomfortable press.
It’s relinquishing.
It’s not having enough gratitude.
It’s traversing the same paths so many times it becomes a Groundhog’s Day.
It’s heart-shaped Bougainvillea hanging onto concrete, shaped against dirt.
It’s them winning,
you winning,
then both of you


Going Out With Some Poetry

I have the same fucking resolutions so tuck them in, pull the sheet up to that warm space under chin, kiss foreheads and take a mallet and wallop until you need to clean the walls.  

I just want to be a better version of myself in 2018. I want to level up.  I want to shed as much bullshit that does not serve me as possible.  I want to put my money where my mouth is. I want to write another book. I want to sell a fucking book.  I want to hit my Goodreads reading challenge for once. I want to eat all the unused gluten and buy recreational marijuana. I want to be what the picture of this lion is:

In an attempt to remember who I used to be, here are two poems.  

You Are The Morning Quiet

Where there are pots and pans hands, you are not. The loud frightens. Its ugly, a thorn.
Between the clangs and bangs your soft slips in.
Your still, a reckoning of peace
of home
Brown flashes tendriled bright
I wait for each one

High Hopes
There is a shuffle in my heart it skips warm then chokes a snake mid eat on a thing it th…


It came for them first. Started with four, then it took two more then two more. It waited a day, then took another.The day after that it took down two, then two more, and now a twelfth.  I don't know who it will take next. Everyone is wary.  Looking for signs. Waiting. Scared.
Stomach viruses are no joke.
Like standing above a vast forest and watching trees mysteriously topple and fall.A random selection of destruction.Which tree will go next? Why? How?All I know is it a liquid hell for roughly six hours and then just misery for the next 33.I think I’ve lost all the weight I might’ve gained on Christmas and then some.I ate solid food last night for the first time in two days.It went down easy. It stayed down blissfully.
My stomach still feels shitty.And the underwear and sweatpants that I sharted into whilst puking are still sitting in a cold, damp heap in the corner of my childhood bedroom.I half-heartedly rinsed them in the shower after my grand finale of shitting while simulta…

a poem i wrote with glen phillips on repeat and

A Necessary Dying

There are tumbleweeds that blow with heat winds.You’ve seen them—giant skeletal balls of once-shrubs—rolling across barren land, quick with wind speed, their nothingness catching it somehow, using it to make them faster than they’d ever dared to dream, should an organism such as this, dream.
I’ve always thought them dead things, but in actuality, they are life-giving mothers on a birth mission.Mother-smart, they detach themselves from their roots, relinquishing themselves into the wind (another mother) and let it take them, as trusting as a child.The tumbleweed is free with purpose.
And so it tumbles—it’s in the name, after all—its emaciated tangle racing over dirt flats, all the while releasing a spawn of seeds in its path.New, not-yet mothers.Pods of one day sprinkled in its wake. Left for life.
I’ve swerved to avoid them, god forbid their bony, balled frame explode against my car’s paint.I’ve seen them piled against barbed wire fences, an atrophied orgy of a mission’s end.I thought th…

A Shout Out For My Unpublished Novel

My book a purebred Tibetan Mastiff cowering under a tireless car fur matted, smelly breath, infected eye.
My book, a rusty nail you step on in your flip flops, summer of ’76, that abandoned house up on the hill, swallowed by forest, empty beer bottles, dirty, filleted mattress a shade of canvas brown and corner-torn square wrappers emblazoned with TROJAN that you don’t know about yet but oh…you know.
My book, a brightness that hurts like noon sun out the back exit of a movie theater but you sneeze and popcorn bits shotgun into your cupped palms and there’s a bit of snot and you wipe it all on your pants.

My book, a prima ballerina thirty-three years from now telling her grandkids how she traded the beauty of ballet for normal feet, an untended body.
My book, not wiping all the way perfectly.
My book, a pile of garage sale remnants left curbside with a hand-drawn FREE sign, still there in the morning, wet, letters running.
My book, my love, pockmarked and wrenched from my arms still bab…