This poem is a response to one my dad wrote by the same name. It is included below. White Hair I figure you were finally caught by the old man you tried to chase away. I think I saw him too at my dusk and your dawn, in the morning after too much wishing I could carry you along. Maybe Calvin Senior came and pulled you away you wrote how smart men do this each in their own way. I know you’d never leave without a fight, never gently into that good night. But now that you are out

Rain I brace a table I embrace a name I hope I see your ghost After all this rain. My chest splits open As part of you moves in, But I’m sewn up all wrong And don’t know where to begin. Raised by the player  who knew the blues run the game I hope I see his ghost After all this rain. My head closes up As too much of you moves out, My memories sing and fade Like water in a drought. Your heart, your heart Like a strange machine gave out The heart that cried wolf, But could no lo

Two moments in time, forever in mind October 2000, sitting on the edge of the hill, what a great view A sunset, ¢1 lollipops, our hearts filled with joy "Say goodbye!" grandma yells from down below, "Five more minutes!" I reply, taking in the last sunshine glow Deep inhale, the smell of wet dirt and handmade tortillas Hand in hand, we climb down together - one last hug so tight Tears fall, "I'll see you soon!" a promise so bright March 2013, a different edge, a different view

My mother told me it was contagious, her proclivity for loneliness. When I was a boy, I couldn’t quite describe that emptiness in the pit of my stomach, that perpetual knot in my throat, that inexorable desire to be a nuisance to those who were sick of my company, that self-hatred knowing that people were, in fact, sick of my company. I was eighteen when she told me, shortly after my aunt passed away. She went to New York for a work trip, and I was left alone, left to my own

"Bob Dylan," "Hud," "29," and "Victoria PT"

Look, you know full well what they’re like: twisting words and half-truths, those magpie thieves;

How the corners of the page curl in flame how the smoke rotates every atom of his vision on its axes

In Defence of the Cryptid & How The Forest Calls

We exited the roadhouse, a rural gas station-restaurant hybrid into a more uncanny night.

My many years on stony roads have led me to the crashing edge.

It's getting harder Not to sink To the bottom And live there I see your face in everything, And the thought of Never holding your hand again Slowly creeps back in, Settles, and pulls me under, Further down deeper Leaving me broken, Drowning in pain Nothing will ever be the same I can't stop hurting Sorrow is my constant

Lucia of Syracuse, patron saint of writers — known for fiercely guarding her virginity, but isn’t that another way of saying self-preservation and autonomy from men? Patron saint of the blind — the men who killed her tore out her eyes,  and she holds them in every painting  like a badge of honor, like she hasn’t yet been bested.  Look what they’ve tried to take from us, she seems to say, poised and unfazed, instructing me:  write them into a corner.

Let this wicked song hit where it’s true let it love you thru and thru.

she was sleeping with her mom on twin sized mattress  her mom was a waitress  that spent half of her salary on the sleeping drugs  they loved each other but they had to constantly pack their bags  she has never seen her father, not even one time he didn’t call, but she thought it was alright she hasn’t seen the other life  life on that side my father overloaded my lunchbox and i looked for someone to share it with around  and then there was her, a girl never spoken to but spo

Alone in my office at home, the only one online Tending to my inbox with only it as my company I can not recall when it first joined me But I found myself quite fond of it, strangely Legs like crooked fingers idly tapping underneath my bookshelf Tentatively peeking out, seeing my upside down face I sit at my desk for hours before the sheer white screen, Knowing it’s there, waiting With icky skin sticking to my black plastic chair And growing misanthropy to email correspondent

I don’t believe in ghosts  at least not in the traditional sense.  The only ghosts I believe in  are the ghosts of the people  who walk out of your life  for better or worse.  The ones that haunt you  with their presence  in your memories,  with their voices  in the back of your head,  and with those intrusive thoughts  you know only latched on from them.  I believe in this type of haunting and constantly wonder

You used to write only exclusives about the world ending. 

There’s a darkness at the heart of me  Creeping, lucidly, through dutch tulips and paisley, Parsley, sage, and rosemary climbing Windowsills in dirgeless threnody. We are constant, droning, no queens in the hive. There is only the slender shadow of  My outstretched hand Reaching over 2am tile,  Pulled out of proportion, Sticky and sinuous as old rubber bands Lingering on the receipt printer. “Turn your card over”  Ace of Clubs. Page of Cups. Receiving, ever receiving, Glancin

i. Träumerei, "Kinderszenen" No. 7; Robert Schumann I was four when I fell in love for the first time. With tender fingers, I traced every one of your lines, black and white smudged slightly with my fingerprints. Naive, my hands caressed your surface like a lover delicately exploring the depths of her beloved’s heart. The world was at my fingertips; you were my world. Your mind lay open before me, a sheet of paper studded with dots and lines and symbols, the genius of all th

The Amber House, Main Hall, 1920s