Love is an empty bench.
Created by man,
Yet it’s obligations permeate
Throughout time,
Without the conscious decision (intention?)
To suspend ignorance.

Love is an empty bench.
It does not grow cold when winter hits,
Or warm when spring returns.
It may wear overtime
If abused,
Made only for those
With mistakable motives.

Love is an empty bench.
Honed to be completely utilitarian
To those imperfect wanderers
Unaware of the culmination
Of their unwavering confusion
On the matter at hand.

Love is a stable bench.
It rests, stagnant,
Left on the assumption
It will varnish heat
Once more.


Built with a purpose in mind,
not for those with purpose.


do you overanalyze? are you the other woman?

It is a true contradiction, in simplest terms, to define love. Yet, love precedes all schools of thought on it’s own subject. This is in how love is handled by those in possession of the emotion in question.
Is it love when comfort trumps all else? When fear of the future based upon prior engagements, or, better yet, tumultuous conclusions seen second hand, determine the course of love–is it truly a realized feeling? Can it be realized while we harbor these feelings within us, unknowingly pushing it upon the lover under consideration?
Can such a thing as love come to fruition without risk? Or need risk always be of concern and, without it, the feeling is simply attraction, want, temptation, sacrifice…without motive?

I don’t believe that any of us can say for certain, as we all feel love differently. Many at the time of being faced with it cower at its shape, shrink in its shadow. A shape unfamiliar to one’s own empathy, a shape that is not easily described, as it is out of the realm of one’s own mind.

The future is unknown, but not undeniable.


fancy meeting you in the dark

few instances have occurred in personal anguish
over the maceration of tart apples,
that long for denouement
at striking peak value.

it seemed a black night,
visuals corrected by the wont for less
so it became bright with expiration
as theory would place it.

many occasions have materialized
under tyranny of renegade,
whom fancy understatement
and struggle to cope with fidelity.

I will be your beacon in the inevitable cessation of day,
to break your wounds with my senseless script.

Thank You

We are not conditioned
To acknowledge heroes
Until they are no longer able
To commit to the task.

We are not taught
To understand the reality
That some are gifted
With unwavering confidence
That calls them ‘friend’.

I am not an outsider
Because I do not have the conviction.

I am not unique, as the definition states,
Because heroes alter my ego
For me to portray such a trait.

We are not acclimated
To believe in theories
Until we have heard them before
Through friends, politicians, little people,
Or in our dreams.

We are not prepared
To receive our dreams
As discussed with our motives,
Until we have seen it accomplished.

That, my friends,
Are what egos are made of.


As you place your phone down,
Table shakes,
and you ask why.

It was manufacturing, I say,
something malfunctioned
in the break room.

But, then, he says,
why do you keep a table
broken from the onset?

Isn’t that
human nature? I reply
in return.

I would have complained,
maybe sent it back.
He states.

I could not do such a thing,
think of all of those people
Putting it together

As if it were their last
will and testament.

Some exist
without consideration,
thought, for so far down the line.

This gift was still

to be continued…


I am a pawn,
Moved for the betterment of one player
And the demise of another.

I am a piranha,
Rarely seen
With teeth to maim all those surrounding
And the few above.

I am a prawn,
Sometimes incorporated in movies
As other-worldly,
Nevertheless grotesque.

I am a painting,
Slowly constructed,
A final product
Up for opinion by others and others only.

I am a pedestrian,
Moving without assistance,
Speaking on my terms,
At the end of a street.

I am the panic button,
Rushing, riveted,
Unable to calm myself
Until silenced.

I am a powder brush,
Clearing up your insecurities,
Slowly wasting my bristles,
Inevitably recycled fabric.

I am panting
For the air
I grasp.

I am still panting.

I am paranoid,
Not of you,
Nor the future,
But of possessions.

I am possessed
By nostalgia

By a pawn
I moved too soon.

racing orchestration

A silent, unmovable symphony
Rings as persons move about
Smelling, exuding of activity
While I sit,
And dream of anonymity
Swinging, like Portugal,
Distant but heard in chords
And words
Streamlined to one symphonic principle
I could not comprehend
Were it not for those persons
Moving about,
Unbeknownst, mist
Lies ahead
Barren, but for bodies.

Yellow brick road,
Why must you be so dim?
So devoid of emotional misconduct
Sketched to simply match expectation
All you do is take pride in the
Anticipation of disappointment


Choking Victim

There was a businessman reading the newspaper in his second-class seat. Some guy on a football team had scored a home-run in the second period as the ball exploded with blood across the field. It was his third KO with an overall death count of 5 in one game alone.

Another woman sat with earbuds fastened to her cranium, the subtle bass drum in the song moving her body violently.
The businessman’s suit began to glow as they dimmed the overhead lights to indicate take-off. A steward walked by and asked him to, please, turn off all physical devices. It’s an amazing phenomenon when a Big Shot decides to co-mingle with us middle class folk. Their intelligence helps to fuel our misshapen minds.

I was on my way to the museum, where a long lost relative of mine, Serendipitous Farlow, was on display. The second-coming of ‘Life: Those Who Were Found’, an exhibit of bodies exhumed from previous, unsolved murder cases that were televised on local news stations’ renderings of ‘Cold Case’ and ’24 Hours Until The End’. Student’s had a discount; friends and relatives still grieving could present the contract (or photocopies of) for free admission.

Many of the murders in this particular showing were from gruesome bewitchings of the soul. My ancestor, for one, was found with nothing but a stick of gum in her pocket and a tapestry to cover her bones. She had a condition known as noncutis, her skin starting to peel from the age of 1, ending at the age of 5. I think her family loved her just the same for it; you got good benefits that way. The gene didn’t pass on to her children. They were adopted, as I learned from Cold Case.

I could hear the buzz of a needle from a room in the overhead housing for the stewards. Maybe a stick-and-poke match-up was being held on the aircraft out of sheer boredom. Stewards were sort of the bane of every Level’s existence.

Coffee leaked from a fisherman’s IV once the seatbelt sign finally dimmed. The caffeine gave way just enough to stain his clothes and proceed to seep into the pleather chair. Some passengers inhaled the coaxing smell. Glue was not allowed to cross state borders. The smell of phishsticks flowed throughout the cabin, and some women let out moans of pleasure at the thought of soon sinking their teeth into complimentary trough water vermin.

A few days ago I traveled to the Artifact Hall of Fame in Custer, Michigan, where championship rings and Native turquoise could be touched and educated upon. There was to be a lesson on how universities prospered in the 21st century, until they were no longer of use. I got a peek at a coffee cup that was said to have healing, energizing powers within its mold. I could see some grinds at the bottom of the cup, but when touched, I discovered they were simply drawn in. In the gift shop that day, I was so enamored with a book of pure nonsense text that I decided to buy a video tape of old men speaking about the power of country living in the elevated vacation towns of Colorado.

I could hear a woman speaking to her tape, arguing with the transparent man about all-you-can eat food stops, saying they should stay home for the winter so as to not get any viruses from neighboring communities. Some magic they had begun to practice in the home also warned against dehibernation. The Big Shot up ahead scoffed a little. I saw him type a message of sorts into his recorder, probably to be sent to a co-worker about an upcoming charity trip to help the people of Seattle battle the severe sugar drought. Only Big Shots could do charity work like this, while those on other tiers gained little to no reward in their daily workings.

Keep On Dancin’ came on overhead. Most of us middle classers stood up to dance. Suddenly, the plane began to descend, somewhere.


What can we measure phases in?
Time? Like hours
Like days
Like developmental stages
Forcing us to change?

Or in materialistic objects
that we obtain
throughout our phases
may just be recreations
from scenes
not yet choreographed

leads to land