Baudelaire—get drunk

ONE SHOULD always be drunk. That’s the great thing; the only question. Not to feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and bowing you to the earth, you should be drunk without respite.

Drunk with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please. But get drunk.

And if sometimes you should happen to awake, on the stairs of a palace, on the green grass of a ditch, in the dreary solitude of your own room, and find that your drunkenness is ebbing or has vanished, ask the wind and the wave, ask star, bird, or clock, ask everything that flies, everything that moans, everything that flows, everything that sings, everything that speaks, ask them the time; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird and the clock will all reply: “It is Time to get drunk! If you are not to be the martyred slaves of Time, be perpetually drunk! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please.”

Charlotte, NC

This city is a nightmare of noise and need
murmurs from every concrete seat cry help me, no—no, help me
I walk on feeling helpless to everyone but myself
sure, it would be easy to reach for the change in my pocket
or the extra in my wallet
“but that’s reaching to deep”, I tell myself
quietly so no one hears
I can walk around ignoring everyone I pass
I can walk with a “No” sitting on my lips like a jumper on a ledge

This city is a nightmare of noise and need
and I am lost in the thick of it, a dense canopy of beams
you sit on top of the Hearst tower with judgment
watching my greed or better yet—thoughtlessness
pretending your not just like me
sitting high above but living in the weeds
all the while we pretend we are nothing like them
all the while with a kiss on our foreheads like we were blessed

two long lost friends

Our stories, the same.
We were two pages bound in a novel.
When separated by thousands,
it’s easy to get lost in the “betweens”.
And me?
I would tear myself apart just to be closer.
I would move the earth if it weren’t for the sea.
So you went this way and I went that.
You took the high-road and well, I took the…
We’ve wandered a long while my friend
and it’s been even longer since we’ve seen home.
Yet as we run, march, crawl and claw at the soil to get further,
the author has penned our return.
It will be the end of our story.
And I’ll meet you there,
that place where the words end.

You moved to Albuquerque

Your mom told you to be careful, she saw an episode of “Cops in Albuquerque”, where someone was firing a shotgun in the air at the University.
I said, “that’s rare my dear, those guys stick to the Warzone. That’s close to 4 miles away!”
You weren’t buying it.
I said, “stick with me! I was born and raised in Albuquerque. I was in the 18th Street gang as a Tween. I’ve got connections… gang connections.”
You laughed and smiled, and I smiled, and it was funny.

You moved to Albuquerque.


It was just the idea of it, he thought.
The reality… piles of nothing.
Like the man that was swallowed up by the sinkhole in his bedroom.
He never stood a chance.
“What happened to Hank?”
“The earth ate him.”
The idea though… the idea was novel.
He believed he was a god-damn genius.
And he spoke the words to her like he was singing bible hymns.
She said, “Not tonight, Mr Sensitivity.
Sure, you’ve been dancin’ all your life
but you ain’t ever gonna dance with me.”
He grew old and bitter.
He poured liquor on his wounds so they would not heal.
He became a stray.
“What happened to Hank?”
“The earth ate him.”
But even dogs have things they can dream about.
And the earth will spit him out.


The Fall

You’re hiding in leaves
underneath trees
fall is the season you liked

just like the sun
around you we spun
running in circles after the light

we’ve met before
we’ve danced on the shores
you’ve knocked on my door after goodnight

I have so much to say to you
but none of these words will do
I’ll string them along
a sentence
a song
then say goodbye


Who shall breath once the air has gone
Once civil war enters our lungs
As intervention sleeps on the tongues
Of those once outspoken

Birthed into this epilogue
Light wanes and feathered things have gone
A boycott of the swallow’s song
Only predicting the past

She lingers inside, noiseless, gentle
Uncoils her arms with movement so subtle
A merciful kiss, a graceful rebuttal
Concealing herself away once more