touched by an angel

i visit death
in my mind

a hundred moments in a day

i wonder

not what death
is like
but for those

i have grieved before
i understand
we gave death

the desolation of missing a person

i don’t know how to die
i don’t know how to be the one
who causes such misery
their absence

i wonder
if they feel our pain
the dead
do they think

or maybe there’s just nothingness
a deep and eternal slumber
of wonder

a longing
to return


to touch — once again — our beloved


silent night


arms entwined

darkness expands
i close my eyes
against the shadows

the words form

they reach out
test the air


maybe solace
maybe acquiescence

beseeching the shadows
they pour forth



ordinary people

the worst part of suffering from madness isn’t the actual madness or whatever. it’s when you realize how many folks suffer from it in one form or another and it’s just so ordinary and mundane and everyone —literally everyone— is fucked up to one degree or another.

and it’s just the banality of ordinariness that’s the greatest tragedy.

and we all waste so much time and effort on carving out our own type of crazy when we are all just suffering from the disease of being born that we miss so much the incredible aspect of being corporeal by hiding until it’s over.

the sensations that only the embodied can experience: rain on our faces; sand along the arch of your foot both gritty and fine, rough and renewing; the scent of a thunder storm riding just beneath the summer breeze, bracing and tentative and full of wild abandon; a lovers touch on the small of your back, sending ripples beneath your skin as your breath catches, gently, in the hollow of your throat. 

true madness lies in understanding the potential of your particular brand of madness and riding the wave to experiencing every iteration of yourself that you possibly can. don’t get lost in the fear of your melancholy get lost in its adventure.

a heart, betrayed, seeks normalcy

water ripples
on the underside of my skin
as it retreats
leaving behind flesh
that is malleable and soft
suddenly too large
it is conscious of its wrongness
it seeks a normalcy that it scant remembers


for the first time in forever
it thrums
seeking a memory
that for so long
lived just outside its grasp

daughters of poverty

A monster lingers inside of me
Living in the dappled shade of my destiny

A tapestry stitched together from all my yesterdays
Woven through with unfulfilled promises and broken dreams

Some days I think it will be my only masterpiece

Stomping around my psyche
Broken and flailing
It destroys the good with the bad

It exists on a diet of self-doubt mated with misery

Doubt crowds
Demanding attention

The middle of the night looms while I wonder about how things might have been

Ought to have been

Instead of the ground up mess they currently are

I wonder how much potential was lost; how much energy consumed

Do we disrupt the balance of the universes’ kinetic energy

By living life in lethargy

unfinished thoughts

(author’s note: a stream of conscious rambling written at least a year ago that I thought I would clean up and finish but it doesn’t want polish, it wants this. Who am I to argue with the muse?)

I am a wash with sorrow and weariness
As a spectator I don’t know how you abide

I want to burn it down
And they’re not even killing mine

I am ashamed and tormented

Men reduced to hashtags
Protestors flood the street

Thoughts and prayers are offered
But nothing really changes

Hashtag nation

We drag out platitudes dull with use and wonder why they seem trite and overused. We place the burden of perfection on average people and seek ways to dismiss their loss and pain. We demand of them excellence and are quick to dismiss an entire existence because they fail to live to an unattainable standard of perfection.

We excuse the powerful and talk about safety as an excuse to abuse.

I am not offering solutions I am working out my feelings in a stream of consciousness that may appear or actually be contradictory and confusing. It is what has kept me mostly silent this week but the silence is damaging and my mind is weak.

Pray if you must but that’s not my style. I like Papa Francisco’s admonishment of praying to end hunger then working to feed people. Thoughts and payers not followed by actionable deeds are useless and condescending to the grief we are feeling collectively and a slap in the face to those grieving individually. To those who have had their lives torn asunder.

You can’t simultaneously arm a citizenry and then be surprised when they use them. If your only tool is a hammer pretty soon every problem looks like a nail.

And the issue of extra judicial killings of blacks isn’t that these men are necessarily innocent but rather their summary executions and the states unwillingness to protect their rights to due process posthumously by prosecuting their killers in the best case or even looking into the mirror society is holding up to them and realizing that there is a disconnect between those they are entrusted to protect and serve and their actions. And acting on their short falls in a proactive and thoughtful way.