untitled

we were architects.

we were kings.

we were many, many things.

but we grew old,

the stories say.

and one by one,

we passed away.

knives

we leave by the dawn

with miserable tones our

backbone.

we dry our lives and our wallets

of excess because of the

love for what we have 

here, how we feel here,

who we have to love in 

this mess.

a tire flattens and you

yell at your brother, whether 

by flesh

or by blood or 

by fraternity of the art.

dollars fall through the cracks of 

dedication as impressionable

ears fall deaf and eyes 

are blinded by 

us.

leave your plastic cities and

screen prints you white-washed 

tombs.

pop culture enthralls and surrounds

not only the least of these

but the just

and the 

unjust.

whimper away to corners with

your and my pride and 

misunderstandings of this 

hidden society.

we have no place for

arrogance.

we have no place for

you.

on april 19:

i had that same joyful conversation.

i. am. alive.

we. are. alive.

there's a house in the woods

august 2006

bozeman, montana

it comes in waves

oh come on.

not this

again. seriously.

these waves are getting old.

waters are midnight

drives to canyon country

and kisses on the mouth.

we are growing younger and 

more estranged, but we aren't.

no.

we are growing more lost. 

more frustrated.

more shiny silvery sparks on

the other. more alive more 

alive

more dead.

on the here and now:

this was old a long time ago. 

how long, Lord? 

how long?

april thirteen

looking in

a mirror,

i saw

you in 

the greyest

corners

of my 

shoulders and

knees.

"go away."

you told

me, 

watching

and

whispering

with no

ill intent in

your eye.

then we shook

ourselves up

at 

the realization

of how

terrible

we once

were. near

the staircase

all 

alone.

we loathed

our 

recollections;

yearning only 

to 

rejoice

at the

death of

a 

perfect

man.

and in

a sea of

gaping

mouths and eager

ears,

we took

our uncertainties

out on

the other, 

painfully wading

through the

mire that

is the 

faults 

of our fragile

beginnings

in order to

reach the blessed

present.

now 

it 

hurts me just

to write

these things

as 

i 

cannot

forget

the

pain

we

caused

our

God.

and it 

makes so

little

sense to me

that He's

okay with

us.

though that

is

the case,

i'm okay

with

you.

excerpt 001

There were reminders everywhere. Whimsical tired melodies, insufficiently illuminated parking lots, vinyl purchased when together, broken sentences and ballpoint pens, overheard misgivings of Bradbury and Bukowski, and the air we breathe constantly lurked around various everyday corners. All passively destructive (in the grander scheme of things) and equally as unforgiving, they occupied dreams, half forgotten, and graced the foggy reflections of storefront windows casually strolled by and glanced into, occasionally claiming such bold things as "the sky is not really falling."

nous allons, ensemble, vous et moi

you'll cast bells/ i'll paint icons

june 2007

forest lake, minnesota

le château dans le quartier

oak manor

our living room is a mess.

the kitchen isn't bad.

eyes are tired.

air is dry.

the hum of the dishwasher

and laundry machine weaves

through the air.

and everything is back to that

odd, unwanted

state of temporary normalcy.

la jeune fille de monterey

on people (person) who read(s) blog(s):

i see you.