Showing posts from February, 2013

You're here

You're graceful
all around,
drinking in the
soul of me.

I cannot help
but stare, sometimes
at the back of your head,
because that's all I can see
of you. And that,


is enough.


It was an odd fog this morning,
cresting like a wave
in the silence of the night
upon the broken shores of
Deadman's Hollow.

I belong to the sea,
he said,
his windows rolled down,
as if sending an invitation
to the pallid blanket over the city.

The Road, he thinks,
is a narrow strip of suicide,
never changing, and
gritty. There is no more here than
a constant expanse to an endless

The scenery starts looking the same.
At least it shares this with the sea,
around you is nothing but water
and you think you could drown in
the constant reflection
of salty tide.

There is unidirectionality,
a oneness of everything.
It's a battle of wits
to convince yourself that the
age you race toward
is also what propels you forward,
every bump in the road
is a new wrinkle...

But it pains him to think this
as his wheels do all the work.
In the ocean, he thinks,
he'd put in his miles on his hands.
The salt-air burning scars into his
face. The sun beating him down
into a yoke of to…


In response to a WD prompt:
In the right light, his hair almost cast a shadow.
"Well, seeing as how I don't have a choice in the matter, I suppose I'll have to go with eyesight."
He, Dr Manne, had me strapped to a cold, sterile, surgical steel operating table. I didn't remember how I got there.
"Eyesight? Typical."
"That's the one I want dulled."
"Oh. Interesting. Willingly blind." He was stooped over a table, his shoulders hunched with anticipation. I was catching mainly the echo off the plain white walls.
"I want you to enhance my sixth sense."
I heard a clang and what sounded like the rapid rearranging of metal pieces of a metal tray. When he spoke, his voice came out in starts and stops. "The sixth sense?" he sputtered.
"That's what I said. I want you to enhance my sixth sense."
He laughed, slowly at first, with the gurgle building steam in the pit of his stomach, then reached a Vesuvian explosivenes…

Getting Lean in 2013

Good day, folks.
Today's post is of a different direction. It's the first of several that are going to go into detail about what I am going to do to get fit and GoRuck/Highland Games strong.
Several of you already know that I am both gluten- and dairy- free. It's biological. However, having to exlude these things from my diet has had an immense effect on my physique and metabolism. I am no longer sluggish, my focus has improved, I sleep better, and fat has had a hard time sticking around my midsection. Workouts feel more effective, as my endurance has also increased. Wheat is a killer. Dairy comes from a cow.
Anyways, my stats are this: I am 5' 9.5" and barely kicking 150 lbs. My one rep max deadlift is 110. I can squat my body weight. My bench is 90. I'm not that great. But, I've started a new regimen, and I'm going to start tracking now.

Yesterday, my workout was this:
1.5 mile run/warm-up
5 rounds of 30 feet suitcase carry, heaviest weight (60 lbs…

A Poem in Parts: Part 5

Day 5

He didn't sleep last night. He was driven
by heat and his dreams caused his body
to ache and

twist. It's probably better this way. No one wants
to sleep with a man who cannot seem to separate
the sheets from

his indecipherable memories. He awoke that morning
to an incandescent sheen on his windows and a
knock on the

door. It was a Monday. He put on his clothes thinking
that today would be the final day to say good bye, but
he wasn't

sure he was ready to release her body heat to the
curtains and windows. He wasn't sure he was ready
to get rid

of the last little drops of sweat and her lingering
perfume still impermeating his bed linens. He pulled
on his pants

and found a letter on the stoop. It was penned in
illumination. It was penned in loops.
It was in

the hand of a woman.

A Poem in Parts: Part 4

On the Fourth Day

He’s feeling like he should shave. It’s been
since that night and it is way past 5 o’clock.
His eyes are

red and crusted over, presumably from crying,
though he promised himself a long time ago
that he would

no longer allow his eyes to water. He thinks
a lot about his mother right now, her kind,
warm embrace

and comforting words had soothed him before.
They could do the same thing now. He needed to
hear he was

a good man with a good and patient heart so
that he could learn to live on when the one part
of him that

pines still will become just another part of him.
He wishes he could see her again. To remember her face.
He went back

to the bar the night before only to find the
same beefeater that found him first.
He didn’t

feel much like being reacquainted, so he
sat and watched as other couples camped
and flirted.

Helena. Helena, my love.

A Poem in Parts: Part 3

Three days from then

he is back to the bottom of the hill,
reminding himself of Sisyphus as he
pushes his

Ford out of his driveway and into the
street. He was in the mall when he got
under the

notes of her perfume. He had trouble
recognizing it at first. It was almost painful
digging through

the back of his mind, unearthing something
that should have been buried and left

He found out is was Chanel No. 5. It’s a common
fragrance, he says. But, I don’t have a girlfriend.
The lady

with the perfume bottle blushed, and he thinks
he could ask her back to his place later,
but his mouth

wouldn’t move and he stood there stupidly.
What was it about Helena? Was it the brunette
hair she left

behind on the pillow? Was it the way she cradled
his head after the sex they shared? Was it the
way she sung

“Fly me to the Moon” in the shower after they
both got sweaty and out of breath? Or was it
that he was

finally feeling something. He pushed his Ford onto the
street, got in his car, and d…

A Poem in Parts: Part 2

Two Days Later

and it’s all coming back to him now.
He thinks he remembers her name
a shallow

pond, or something like that, where
the water is just deep enough to drown
but not deep

enough to worry yourself with ever waking
up. Does she remember his? After all, it
was the day

of love, and they just so happened to be
in the same place at the same time.
The thirteenth,

not a Friday, but may as well have been,
was not a great day for him. He was on the

end of a Dear John note, washed in perfume
and stinking of infidelity. Plus, his name
wasn’t John.

Relationships, he thinks to himself, are
no picnic. There is no red and white checkered
sheet. No wine

hidden in a cute wicker basket that
touches the cheese and bread just so much.
But, was this

a relationship in the first place? He looked
down into his coffee sitting on the red and
white checkered

plastic table cloth of the diner and breathed a
deep sigh. It was just a night of revelry and me
feeling sorry

for myself, he thinks. I …

A Poem In Parts

This is the first in a series since V-Day.

The Day After
love is no longer mentioned, while the black
coffee swishes and swashes in the bottom
of his mug.

The pure white sheets that once contained her
heat were now cold as their color.
She was gone.

They met in a library. She was pre-med.
Both of them intended to be gone before the
other got there,

but the best laid plans of mice and men
were usually paved on the road to hell
and they met.

First, it was wistful, pleasantries
exchanged like the book sleeves
on their paper-

backs soon on the sheets
and mixing into a collage of flesh.
They breathed each

other nights, they wouldn’t breathe
at all. There wasn’t any time.
He knew, though,

all along the windows would open
and she would fly out like they
always do.

Her day came today; he breath stale
on his tongue as he took his first sip
of coffee.

Happy fuckin’ Valentine’s Day, he said
through bootblack teeth and rubber stamp
tongue. She’s gone.


I just want to say this poem is not about my current relationship. This is an official disclaimer.

If the rose be truly red,
then it would
with the blood of the
unfortunate passer by.
Its thorns, tiny lancets,
twist and turn and bleed out
the heart.
It’s never solitary, this.
Where you find one, you find
each equally capable of splitting
your fragile flesh.

If violets truly be blue,
then they are made of ice,
fractured and shattering.
They seep in through the
for every deep enchantment
brings your heart that much
closer to stopping.

If sugar be sweet,
then your teeth will rot
straight out your head.
Your pearly whites will
gather on the
ground, soaking in the
pure, pitiful sounds of your wailing.

And you.
You wretched, horrible,
rose bed.
I must water you daily,
prune you nightly,
and try to not get stung by your needle.
You are like the violet,
frozen and blue.
You rot my teeth to the gum.

I love you.


I am not beast,
he said clawing at the ancient
under which he has found himself
suffocated and extinguished.

When was it that the darkened expanse,
fitted behind the sun,
became an anchor
and the sun itself
became a portal
to a turgid world of reckoning?
Does a beast, eyes red and soaking,
teeth yellow and bared,
dare think these thought?

It had been a long time since he had felt
It had been a long time since he had seen
his own blood flow into the time-carved
rivulets in the ground below
and gather into
small puddles under his feet.
He couldn't remember how long he
had sat on his throne.
His memories faded to smoke faster than
the fire had been built,
and he was laying face up
into a scrying glass.
He had taken the throne,
upon murmurings of discontent.
It had been easy,
he thought, and he thought it again,
and even smiled at this thought
that he had been the one to puncture the
delicate tapestry of long-established formality.
How fitting, then, that
his bl…


It’s a revolution they speak of,
but the hem of his robes continue to stay
an inch above the ground.

They always will, he thinks,
so long as the ground beneath him stays
beneath him, solid and sound
and tied to the spinning world.

It’s been a hard battle, he knows,
but these halls have stood and stayed
when the walls were burning
white and ashen, embers resound-
ing echoes of screams and

Hail Mary full of grace. This,
he thinks, as his robes swish and sway
bounding off the cobblestones
down and through and around
the myriad halls, is not the Crusades.
This is the death of martyrs and saints.

He falters, tries to catch his breath,
and leans heavily on a bust of a man slain
years ago in a fit of misunderstanding.
Power, he knows, lies in the hands of they
who seek to destroy that which amounts
to be a square peg for a round hole.
He can feel the first of many stinging

saline worries gently trace a path from
his eyes to his chin. His feet keep moving him away
from the doors of his cell t…

Melt me slowly

I have found myself at a crossroads,
sandwiched between folds of cloth
and yards of flesh.
Do I gently tug or do I begin to disappear?
A silly thing, flesh.
They say it is the greatest organ,
and when pressed so rightly,
when stroked so tightly,
it does sound a homily,
glancing the narthex and singing its praises
to God.

God what I want to do to you
under the yards of flesh.
I want to practice ingenuity.
I want to stitch and sew myself to you.
I want to become that which is filling this void
between us just so that I may inch that much closer.
And closer still.
I can feel your breath on my breath.
I can see your eyes in my eyes.
This distance is driving me mad.
I am ready to listen.
I am ready to listen with my calloused fingers,
which stand crossed at the lower of your back,
and wishing, God, wishing there were some way
I could feel more of you at once!
Can we just get on with it?
I stand/ sit/ puddle, suspended
from your fingertips,
waiting and wishing for this time to end
so we can finally