June 23

A while ago, I went out on a date, and we smiled at each other a lot and it had felt good to talk to someone. The bar I chose was darkly lit, quiet. We talked about our families, our pasts, our futures, life, death, God. She was very sweet, listening to me. I was surprised at the end of the night to see that it was so late. But through all that time and all that talking, she eventually asked me about me. People only highlight the successes of their lives, never the shortcomings, the failures. But what if you don’t have anything to be considered a success? What if years have passed, and you have gone nowhere?

Say something real.

I don’t know how to be vulnerable. And that, in the end, may be my biggest regret. Old, and soaked in regret. Perhaps that is why I was drawn to writing to begin with, because I could pour myself into others. I could be vulnerable. They say depression is the inability to mentally construct a positive future for yourself.

After, we walked outside together. That night was chilly, wet, many people out. I waited with her on the corner for her ride, and we both said that this was fun, that we should do it again sometime. It started to drizzle, so I held my umbrella over her.





June 20, 2017

Tree Sap

Heat had been igniting
lately with the sun’s first lashes and only
soaking in deeper as the blister
hiked higher, that gap
between late spring and early summer now
closed, opening
to a June so fiery even
the trees seemed
to be sweating, or bleeding,
thick pines and oaks
in the surrounding field all
seasoned rich with sap that
was spilling out in long
strands, black and red. Green
in her eyes,
somehow sapped, not at all
lush and celestial, but bloodshot, blood
vessels scribbling across the outer white
edges. She licked
her lips again and again. Lick
her dry lips. Some
forlorn shade of green
in her eyes,
like moss, sad, but serene. Sap
in her eyes,
tree trunk sap that
would taste sweet, the trees
all bleeding, or maybe crying. The trees
were all crying, all of them
weeping willows, and I like them
when they’re swollen
and crying, tears seething
out and baking in the hot sun, long
scrolls of tears churning slowly
until fried, and then arid, and then inert, tears
plastered into solid cataracts. Her tears
would taste sweet, like tree sap, eyes
so swollen. Sweat
on her real skin, little clear
drops, and little bugs
were playing in her sweat. She let them
play, her sweat
like falling rivers in their
world, breathing
under water, breathing
her in.
Maybe it’s all
just a nightmare. My nightmares
are becoming clearer and clearer.
And her tears
would taste like tree sap, bloodshot
eyes swollen and cloudy,
like you’ve been crying. Have you
been crying?


*An excerpt from my novel, The Scream of God, available for purchase at Amazon

June 15, 2017

Insect Nonsense

Quiet, except
for the insects,
and a dog barking
somewhere. No
answer. The sleepy houses. The
dog finally went silent, tiring
of its own voice, the absence
of an answer, not even
an echo. He stared out
to somewhere. The stars looked
nearby out there, although their light
was reaching and reaching
from far away, dimming
the more it reached,
any closer and maybe he could hear
their far away whispers. Quiet,
except for the insects.
Their sounds didn’t
make any sense.
You thought you
were in love, like it’s
something real. It feels
like insect nonsense.


*An excerpt from my novel, The Scream of God, available for purchase at Amazon


June 14, 2017

Some time ago, I don’t remember when exactly, I stood at a crosswalk in a cold drizzle, looking at the sky, a dim blue, deep beyond the treetops, and the treetops were lulling and I was thinking, I am alive. I get that feeling sometimes, when I look. Not a small feeling, but very big. I hear people say that when they think about life, the grandness, they feel small, insignificant, but I feel the opposite. A touch in my chest, in me, that’s just as deep, as far, as the dim sky. The sky can’t feel that. It’s okay. Raining, and the year ended. I haven’t written anything new in a long time. This is new. I’ve been thinking a lot about normal, normalcy. Through everything, I’ve always wanted more than normal. But I’m alone. Through everything, I’m alone. A different place, different age, but it’s always the same, always alone, less than normal. Is it less than normal to feel you’ve never truly known another person? I’ve only ever known me. I can’t escape me. What is that, what would that be, to know someone, so that the line between she and I is vague, unclear where I end and she begins. I’d like to think that’s normal. The sky can’t feel that.

Once, I wrote a book. It’s the only thing I’ve ever done. That was a long time ago, a different place, different age. And I feel like I lost God. I think I lost you. So close once, but now just a touch.

Most of the time now, I want to sleep.