We have come to congratulate you on your recent admission to the Ebb: A Poem

tumblr_nld24tfGeE1smapx8o1_500Your hands are loaded with absence as you make your way through the vessels of the terrain.

The land is pulsing, and so are you. Your footsteps are the heartbeat of this earth. Congratulations.

There is little to see and little to know. Perhaps you have wandered down the wrong path.

There was a grass route as well, but at the time you believed dirt might lead to pavement.

Now, the moment your toes lift from the ground, the dirt floods your footprints.

It floods your mouth and lungs. It floods your veins and vessels. It floods your eyes and nerves.

Before long, your hands’ absence is lost. It, too, has been replaced by the dirt. Congratulations.

You are six feet tall but getting shorter. Six feet are under you, but two feet keep walking. Walking.

Maybe on tonight’s walk, you keep thinking, maybe on tonight’s walk, things will be different.

Maybe I can get home tonight. Get home clean and wash off the rest. You know you won’t.

You are the terrain now. You are the vessel. You are the bloodstream of this land. Congratulations.


The Art of Falling on My Face: A Poem

I can hear them cooing now

they’re hanging on door frames

leaning on windowsills

calling and whispering for little loves that always come

They sing like little birds into the unsure twilight

and to each comes a companion

ready for kisses and hugs

and smiles with teeth and cheeks and lips

I try to imitate their song

and I press my own weight down on the pane

which earns me no little loves

nor kisses nor hugs

nor smiles with teeth and cheeks and lips

but I have grown sufficient in the art

of falling on my faceScreen shot 2015-03-26 at 6.32.49 PM

On the Way I once Perched my Words: A Poem


There are vultures on the phoneline

at the corner of Harlem and Hopeful.

I think they must be waiting for something because they are always there.

I once heard they wait for fairies;

I once heard they wait for death.

It seems they never soar;

they flap their wings but never fly;

they turn their beaks noiselessly.


Sometimes, during lightning storms, I stand in the street and watch them die.


I think they are the ugliest birds

(they are always scowling discontent) and

I only hope they regrow their feathers.

I only wonder, what holds them back?

Breaking spirits: A Poem


I know what a spirit feels like when it’s breaking

it’s not like a glass dropped on the floor not

like a thousand pieces not

like shattering not

like powerdrills and jackhammers not

like fragile hearts and transparency not

like screaming and crying not

like losing a fight

it’s like watching yourself, a ghost,

lose yourself, a ghost, by resignation not

by outside forces but by the inner purge

it’s like letting yourself go like

seeing yourself die

Trinity: A Poem


I once watched three men

as they walked along a dusty New Mexican road

they were downed in flags and sometimes

in the dark I brush my eyelids with that same triad


I once watched two men explode

I heard them scream but at least their ashes fell

like dust on a New Mexican road

and paved the way for better



I once felt the dust on my eyelids

as it peeled from peeling skin

and as the force of the blast reeled across the sky

I had my first feel of eyes

that could open