The ruddy Alder saturates in the evening window—
reminiscent of boyhood when the day
was yearned to pass
and the night held to as a hand
on its deathbed; now
our thought is entirely mine—
though, what isn’t shared in memory cannot
be trusted. I’m starting to lose it,
the way you cried for me,
pain or ecstasy.
And to think I’ve looked through so many others,
windows onto driveways lit by my night
There is too much heartache at this juncture.
This golden hour never a keeper of its name.

– Oakland, CA


Taken in Long Beach, CA


flakes trickling, filling divots along ivory acres—
mounds yet untouched.
the sky is pregnant, downcast;
clouds glower down,
the dour fields dearth of verdure.

and still the chapped wood bears wolves;
a body defeated lies still, indelibly imprinted—
his path less traveled by the minute
as the air scathes as a scythe.
from the thicket they’ve run, drawn near
like storm troops through a thick gas horizon.
Imminence is smooth snow in the morning; you can feel the ruin coming.

– Oakland, CA


Taken somewhere in California