Each day somewhere between falling and gliding —
I guess that’s sliding —
The voyage is down, I know, but still,
Life goes where it will,
And the storms always come to menace us,
But that needn’t finish us.

Life is a playground, a swing set, a sandbox,
With blocks and clocks and short talks
About our misguiding;
And yet, we keep sliding
Down into adulthood
Which sounded better than it feels good.

The road, the hills, this landscape — our destiny;
At least, so it seems to me.
So, take it in; be flexible, versatile,
Rain is not personal,
Trouble’s abiding, and won’t be subsiding,
So just keep on sliding

The Radio Was Playing

The Radio Was Playing

The radio was playing as
He gave up his last principle

She drew the blinds to seal the deal
A bargain turned into a steal
As in a few short months she’d leave
With everything he owned

Or thought he owned

And what is it? What’s all of it?
Just bits of wacky hijinks that
We do accompanied by songs
Sort of like “Benny Hill”

Some people love for lust, and others
Merely love for money;
Some people sell their souls for just
A small taste of the honey –

And guys like him – they think they know –
But it’s all sensory —
The radio was playing, and
You know what?




{ black saturday }

the feast of our unleavening
the yeast that isn’t there
the gift that has been freely given
i’ve not learned to share

the stars of one black saturday 
that rise upon the cold
the rainbow promise fire-lost
within the crown of gold

In Arcs

We glide in crystal swanboat lemons
Never taste as good as limes we
Bought before the fair got started
Off the way we meant to do but really
Why don’t you believe?

We spin in arcs down from the mountain
Side of fries that don’t contain much
Salt or peppering with questions
For the gallery, but really
Why don’t you believe?

You know what you have been through tell me
Why don’t you believe?


How tangled up our purposes,
How intertwined our goals,
How far away tomorrow is
For carrying these souls.

Our capital intentioning,
Our salutary woulds —
These won’t make up for all the bad
Mixed up in all our goods.

How tangled up our purposes,
And how mistimed our woes —
For different ends can never meet,
And that’s just how

It goes