A Jar of Marmalade

Thoughts felt like freckles


like a pillar of salt,

a clump of salt cradle clasped in a hand

i mingle with sweaty palms.

a long Milkyway into eternities 

and the slow burn of toast before its pop,

are good enough to live for 

before stopping to look back

into reflective time’ s shadows

and gusts of carbon forsaken ash.

forever frozen in stony eyed nostalgia, 

forever turned back 

my fright soluble 

in the palms of faithful unknowns. 

Downtown SF, three beers deep 

old, rich memories unretrievable to me. 

o27 (to mum)

 My only love is on the moon,

that which evades my heart’s harpoon.

In nimble blossoming she wanes in sight 

until in nostalgia’s might

she tills out her love in full mooned flight. 

Whether I spy her a winking 

Or her sorrows’ amissing, turning her back from emotions 

bleeding eye.

On that moon my true love spies,

On that moon my true love never dies.


we live in a city of mirrors, but mirrors of solid flesh

but also of translucence.

dust drenched but soaked sublime 

urbanity couldn’t be more inaccessible 

to the sane

but also to the insanity of surrendered serenity. 

privacy of heart but intimacy of mind 

and extroversion of voice

trust nothing of what you see

and become the author of the choreographed 

comings and goings of the figures around 

measured by inches or boroughs. 

humble nature lives from afar,

so still, 

but come close to it 

and see the quivering of a tree 

and the static trembling of your reflection cast upon a lake

but delight in how inconsequential clarity is

how it does not exist, almost,

and how this world swallows you instead of spitting you out. 


by corners creased forgotten by a sea of wordless wrinkles,

dim light suggests only the mood of two pm. 

it has been a year and some change,

it’s silly to use the word change

when movement is what i feel lately, never change.

i anticipated grief 

to properly perform my part 

in the drama that was her cancer

so that this play would extend or reach its perfected end

so that it would cease into the unconscious,

the melting pot of fiction’s oblivion.

to cry for a hypothetical was a possibility to snare reality’s nightmare. 

to cry over her corpse, my lungs heaving challenges to her still ones, was a fundamental break in the script 

it was the break in the fourth wall 

where i could not will myself to play hope. 

all things missed and all things home.