The hardened steel hammer’s head.

The body of the mute.

To be alive under the shade of a burdened branch

heavy with a million leaves.

The sun, the damned sun and its influences.

The sun-tanned leather.

The plastic skin.

The California dream.

On the first day of Autumn

the light breeze raises and bends back again

pressing the old red, white, and blue

against the border around a field of dreams.

Heading down the 118

the church

the steeple

the several hundred thousand people

passing by

racing by

weaving by

goodbye, goodbye.

I imagine each of us dying in an earthquake

the overpasses

the tunnels

the rubble

mixed in with Star Wars license plates

the Mickey Mouse parents and children

and the NotW declarations


Type Writer

There is no song for me in the ability to type

decompressing ideas into linear forms.

The pen stroke,

the mighty pen stroke that makes beauty come alive

dies within the pixel cage.

Trapped under an air conditioned breeze and fluorescent light,

the ability to type binds another to the information age.

Raw data becomes artist interpretations

the hyper-meta-real material galaxy we could see with a less polluted sky

evades us,


the amber glowing




She whispers, “this time you should try and remember me”

knowing that I am a liar and she is my grace

with one steady hand caressing my face,

her fingertips lightly drag over my stubble.

I haven’t shaved since 5a.m…

Living in my car again,

(looking like a discouraged friend)

the light in my eyes radiates and shines;

like a lantern under a basket,

a lamp in the closet,

the fuel light on my dashboard.

Gracias mi santa Sofia

Necesito la sabiduría

No gasolina


You withered the fruitless tree

“Discordia!” The vinedresser sings

An untimely harvest, sweet patience my plea

My soil-bed unkempt, you can see

Roots buried deep in loose soil I cling 

You the withered the fruitless tree

With death in this moment from sin I am free 

Yet this drying, pulling, uprooting does sting 

An untimely harvest, sweet patience my plea

Command me now and I’ll fall to my knee 

Chrysanthemums, poetic lexicon, what can I bring? 

You withered the fruitless tree

I hear there is still a crown by the lee

Worn by a lamb and shepherd, a servant and king 

An untimely harvest, sweet patience my plea

Shadows lengthen, diffused light covers me 

Respirations deepen in this my awakening 

You withered the fruitless tree

An untimely harvest, sweet patience my plea

Lost in Conversation

There is a river

stalled before it meets the ocean.

The unsettled discourse

laps upon the shore

as the rivers run dry,

and the waves stop crashing.

The ocean flows

with the clouds in the sky

as the rivers dry up.

The ocean is stalled

in the rolling clouds.

The river is stalled

seeking the ocean

of many voices,

random and pointless

disjointed conversations,

the ocean’s narration

taking time,

marking time,

killing time.

The drying river,

a brackish discourse

where heaven is a kayak

gliding above layers of silt

floated by casual conversation

salt, water, confusion

teeming with life,

where the moon swells all the stories told.

First Contact

Shame and Nakedness,

Deep in the Amazon 

the lost tribes 

want food and clothing.

The anthropologist concludes

“They are human after all”

Happy when fed

comforted when clothed.

They are naked in the Amazon.

My sense of self-loathing

reaches the breaking point.

I run around naked inside my home.

My sense of dignity

depends upon my clothes

and the buildings that surround me.

They are an identity, my identity.

I loathe them as extensions of my self.

We are all in the Amazon

pretending like we are clothed.

As indifference grows

upon indifference.

Shedding love as something significant.

Buried under currents of electricity

we hide our shame together.

The Marriot has a water fountain

in California’s eternal summer.

It’s running for me, 

and it’s running for the hurried young woman, with her sugar daddy 

slinking into a Lexus at 5 o’clock in the morning.

For Jenna

Like a wild bull

Toro toro toro!

Your hair shone in the sun,

Flor flora florecimiento

En tus ojos libertad sin fin


Olive eyes and skin,

slender hands,

y en mis sueños eres una arboleda

where the sun shimmers through golden hair.

Is she the bull or matador?


Grabbing the hilt of life like a sword

her red cape flashes, flying victoriously

She is the bull and matador

The crowd cheers “Olé!” 

Why does the crowd cheer?


Enraptured in the moment and all that lies ahead

with swift movements and narrow escapes

both creatures sweating, panting short breaths

they turn to face as the final charge begins


Estocada! she penetrates the dense muscular frame

the bull bursts forth, thrusts, and tears away

all but your solar plexus

before breathing his last

and collapsing on the clay


the matador clutching her waist

right hand clenched on the reddened soil

stretching across her foe she whispers

“olé olé olé…”

to rest in the peace of overcoming;

en la primavera de su vida

en la paz de la muerte

Reflecting Guilt

Are we not,

are we not all,

a guilty reflection

of God

of man

of all the work our hands have done.


Are we,

Are we still,

Are we still when we hear the call

of God

of the land

of promises yet to unfold.


A solitary snow flakes from overhead.

The clouds in heaven

roil the ocean’s breath together

as water crystals break

into perfect symmetrical shapes


Are we not and are we still?

Are we washed when we lay in the snow?

Leaving angels behind

as we frantically wave our arms,

in a white bed of ice, cold.

Is the impression there

an image of me,

of what is left when I am clean?


The chorus of heaven sings,

In my mind there is a song,

“Holy, holy, holy”

as each snowflake falls.