I met someone through work who hosts a small radio show called “Somewhere in the Middle”. She was gracious enough to invite me to an interview.

If you’d like to hear the stream just click on the flyer Friday at 5pm PST.

SITM-Feb-09-2018 800x418


An Avalanche of Sunlight

There is going to be an avalanche of sunlight.

a sassy tree presents itself,

bent not broken,

emerging from the hillside

curved to reach the light


the terrain is covered with lightning scarred trees.

a tree trunk broken

still stands with long branches

embedded deep into the rings formed in youth.

the outer layers stripped away,

undressed by time’s erosion

like many of the foundations of stone houses.

rain reduced rubble


We pause at the vista for a group selfie


-For the Reeves Family of La Verne, CA


***This is probably not finished but I also probably won’t finish it for several years so… enjoy!

You Can See That The Queen Keeps Busy Laying Eggs

three by ten thousand bees

endless toil

a heartless soil





the latest crusts of pollen accessory

wrapped appendage

ankle cuffs





the hive is a farce

the crown is lost

another heralds the end has come





God save the Queen!

God save the working class!

I prefer microbrew royal jelly.



*The title is lifted from a line in an article when I was checking how many bees are in a hive. If you want to know more about bees or organic farming it’s probably a good resource. Organic Farming – Bees

“To be a Sonneteer” or “Getting Drunk for the Holy Days” or “Sonnet 2”

To pluck the vine and smash the sweet produce,
The warm sun shines down upon my habit.
Like a madman I sip nectar reduced.
Defrocked world, heaven’s honey, I grab it,
Smash it, blend it, until no dregs remain.
Castoff skins under the press of my sole.
The sweet residual pulp of my veins
Soaking the spaces of memory holes.
Shiraz, Chianti, valleys of Merlot,
All bred to beat my chest against the wind.
To cry “tonight the moon wears her halo!”
As she sighs down “Must you make such a din?”
Laughing in fear but not grasping for breath
Grapes from the vine in my glass resoundeth.

we choose the pride that preys upon the weak

When I speak of anarchy

a million panicked sons and daughters

are imagined in the streets.

a 90’s Pop Punk band plays

in the background of associative memory,

while an angry 80’s leather jacket and jeans

smashes a window or kills a TV


rarely do I see an imagining of peace

a place of unenforced cooperative human responsibility

perhaps this is where John sleeps


and what do you see?

in what ways does one resist?


is it the spirit of Christ

hovering a finger over the chain of protocol

that leads to nuclear detonation

or comforting the poor and shivering

until with a flurry of muscles twitching

they are warm enough to sleep


two roads diverged in continuous succession

and every time I choose one

I  am faced with two or more decisions


heading toward the sun as it breaks the sleeping horizon

I reach down to feel the dirt

and clutch it in my hand

as the dust and grains slowly sift away

Breaking the Code to Gain Entrance

There are many voices I cannot hear

as collective as we are

as much as we try to share

there are still many voices left unheard

borne upon the back of a blistering wind

a delicate balance and powerful suggestion

destroying homes while setting the crooked path straight again


There is a fire burning through verdant hills

while the poor are huddled under cobalt tarps

each one carries their own crisis

while in the taupe of suburbia the time passes uneventful



There is a highway that connects Beverly Glen to South Central L.A.

composed of concrete

congested with traffic

surrounded by high-rise towers

and office buildings covered in spotless windows

that glimmer like the Pacific at sunset


There is an intangible wall etched into the topography

formed by inheritance, ambition, and a myriad of ethics

separating the bases of destitution from the spires of prosperity

and in a vagrant community I have seen embers of love,

sparks of genius misfiring into insanity

while the same sparks from a wealthier mind

become images the world receives on a screen

and I wonder if I can any longer tell the difference







Caritas Ex Machina

Goodnight camera lens

Goodnight touchscreen

Goodnight QWERTY pie

Goodnight 3, 5, and 7 i

Goodnight AMD Radeon

Goodnight little Linux niche

Goodnight iTower of iVory iPhones

Goodnight Oculus

Goodnight Vive

Goodnight Alexa, Cortana, and Siri

(and lest I forget those with no personality)

Goodnight Google Assistant


Thank you for your lullaby.

Thank you for the warm electric hum

and the rhythm

even if you fooled me with offbeat,

pauses when I was expecting a circuit complete.

To all the hard resets/

and the hard resets/

and the hard resets/

and, for the most part, each newly updated OS.


Goodnight my closest friends

Geminoid F is calling me to bed

and I must plug her in

before she rests.


Sleep well.



***This one is a little weird but to get back into the habit of writing I must start somewhere***

Lovely Are Thy Branches

A sigh released into the winter air
mixed steam swirling aloft around my face
Heated chocolate in a paper cup
with fresh pine and exhaust out in the lot
Forty trees arranged like a forest maze
To shepherd and ensnare consumer’s praise

I reach for my wallet holding my praise
My breath and cheeks are warm in the cold air
that meets us all in the Christmas tree maze
I pass thick pines as they brush by my face
Two weeks ago this space was a bare lot
And now it is Christmas, here, in my cup

Hot chocolate fills my overflowing cup
Each sip, upon my lips, a note of praise
No harm, no foul, Christmas trees mean a lot
Spirit of God swirls through the icy air
smelling of pine and chocolate. My face
Is like a flint and stone. My heart a maze

that leads me deep into the winter maze.
A man says, “Son, finish drinking your cup.”
A young woman alone, scarf covered face
thinks “O my Lord… worthy of all my praise.”
Her voice a lone vapor filling the air
“I’ll buy this tree. It’s small, doesn’t cost a lot.”

The sun has gone down far in the South lot
of heaven, and the night stars are a maze
of dead spaces. Bright gas in distant air
Galaxies swirl in the big dipper cup.
Father of heaven with dark matter’s praise
The stars and light and lives pass by my face.

The wind picks up. Jack Frost nips at my face.
The tree I find is dry behind the lot
Laying down in a stack, fireplace praise
Poverty’s timber outside of the maze
The hour is late in one empty cup
Onto the car, hoisted up through the air

The tree on its face thrown out of the maze
Leaving the lot, empty Christmas tree cup
The seasonal praise as vapid as air.

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