Socially Abstract: A Poem

Anything I do that vaguely resembles normalcy

is a cheap, mass-produced version I picked up at the Dollar Tree

or manufactured myself from low-quality photocopies.

All these conventions are strung together in dingy sweatshops,

sold separately, in indiscreet volumes,

with my bare-naked self portraits slapped across them,

barely held on with a dash of Mod Podge.

I wear the dingy denim until moths come to consume it,

at which point I am forced to take night classes when I should be sleeping

to relearn the capabilities everyone else inherited upon conception.


Locusts: A Poem

Like herds of locusts, they drone in, to come see what I’ve made.

They snack on all the songs I wrote, so dreamily arrayed,

They spit upon the colors, just to watch them drip and fade.


A wide cuisine of words and things, so tasty to the eye,

So lovely just to think about, the dinner; in they fly.

They corrupt my whimsy, they make it banal, and a lie.


I sit. I cannot speak at all, not over their applause,

A hint of something I once wrote is dripping down their jaws.

I try to make them look at me as they wipe clean their claws.


The aftermath of Armageddon looks so close from here,

The splinters are within my reach, the fragments are so near,

And even though the locusts left, I still know only fear.


I whisper to myself and sigh, “Blankets are for tables.”

Brink: A Poem

What is the surface?

Spastic unfurling, reflection

of the tiniest orbit

into a compact orb.

Undulating, rolling out

dancing and reacting.

Painting of orange, painting of black,

backwash of blue,

a receiver and demystifier,

everything is quantum.

Bits lay about, bits

that make a whole, a form, a figure.

Rounded fractals that sparkle

and others floating in

murkier mutterings.

The throbbing pulse,

the proffered answers, not entirely prophetic,

the call to challenge

join me.

Rocking, cradel, lullaby, torment––

across the rocks to the floor,

away from the surface. Far below.

And the emptiness,

as it surges,

is realised to have been there all along.

The heartbeat was only a façade

for the vast

and the endless

and the unstoppable forces

that knowledge cannot conquer.

There is no other beauty

like the worshipped binary

existing as a comfort, if only

to hold back ugly honesties.


And that is what we think now,


Below the layers

of sunlight creeping in,

there is an admirable serenity.

There is no black

no white,

only undertones and overtones of gray.

Finally, to lack is to have.

Finally, we possess all things.

In the Margins of Divinity: A Poem

Paint me a sky

with a wide, wide, black, black watercolor

Draw me an earth

with fine pastels,

with light colors and light touches

Sketch me in on the horizon

give me a long dress

make sure my hair

is blowing in the wind

Infuse every emotion you find

with swirls of the deepest, deepest sadness

spinning bits of love

and orange

for every moment in my life that burns

Doodle me a paradise

with thick spots of ink, birds

across the clouds

Illustrate a pair of wings for me

that sprout from my back

Make them white and

let me fly

Give me a million feathers

that will glow

against the wide, wide, black, black

Create a universe,

a safe haven

for me to rest and run away

Paint a sky, and an earth,

harsh, and soft, and cold, and warm,

Form my figure

out of the tip of your pencil



that I am alone there