Blues With No Refrain

Ground to gravel

Cut to ribbons

I unravel

Just by livin’


Hard streets pounding

through my shoes

All compounding

My constant blues



Sidewalk puddles

In incandescence

The stars are scuttled


The skyline looms

set to devour

Nothing blooms

at ungodly hours



by a patch of grass


in broken glass


Shabby tinsel

still frames the lights

So with hope and pencil

I start to write





The friction between graphite and paper.

Its drag on the paper a catharsis, like digging for secrets

through rock laden earth.

An easily broken trowel

still capable of excavating caverns

long covered over by the soil of denial.

The sounds of it like the plaguing questions we spare answering

for we still aren’t ready to hear the truth.

The hiss of roiling pots on a stove throwing water upon the flames

attempting to douse them.

The staccato of nagging realities

The swoop of a blotted memory

The scritch of all that haunts your mind when sleep is due.

But also,

The call to slow down, and release this weight within you

before you sink through the silt.

Capturing Words

There’s a certain spectacular

Form of vernacular

Saved for the starriest eyes


Full of extremities

Grammatic obscenities

Elitists can’t help but decry


Through emotions abundance

We fight the redundant

Needing to move past the balcony


The heavens compiled

Mastery of the wild

Like some sort of linguistic falconry


Minds carried away

Hearts thrust on display

With words placed in new combinations


A scurrilous storm

Always changing its form

That we chase in our own desperation

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