No Light – Default World Collection

There’s a sink whole
in my chest.
I smell pool water.
A colorful snake creeps up–
its teeth deep
in my brain stem.

I lose you every day.
Your face
molds my vision.
What you left,
coins of the material world,
haunt me,
just like you.

Which step am I on?
the unproductive nature
of my grief
stumbling around,
feeling for life,
the quietest
space in the world,
a hollowness,
a vacancy-

No light,
no light at all.

The space sucks it up,
the sound of blood
drowns out the birds,

and the gray
has become
my ancestor.

A Dance

The cajoling is divine.
And I walk on hands and knees:
eating grass,
sighing deeply,
back exposed.

Waiting for a weight,
a boulder of granite,
an anvil of muscle,
a mass of heavy moss
musky with Earthly roots.

The soul,
the flash of the nonhuman,
slinks into a revelry,
in the sun that glints
off your teeth.

A cavernous aroma
sweeping silently
across my stuttered sleep.

When dirt and grime is all you know–
you burn it down,
and play in the ashes.

The transfer of heat and power:

a dance,
a shared drowning,
a memory.

Default Dreaming II

The story of the mad woman,
a classic,
flickers like a film reel
in my head.
Concocted personalities,
they all seem
to be happening
to someone else.

I leave rooms,
ghosted by the air,
and find myself on roofs,
under cars,
and half-naked
in the middle
of parks.
A presence, with its hand
on my shoulder,
gestures like a parent.
I’ve been bad…

But the character is simply
from a book,
fiction and made
out of ink
and bound paper.
She’s written.
And having been written means:
no formal goodbyes.

To my playa self

Good night
sweet thing,
another year
always brings:

a light
a song
a dance
a scream–

A giant hug
a warm kiss.

A sweat
a mirror
a fever
of bliss–

A thrust
a shiver
a demand
for promises.

A shaking, a spreading,
an emblem of survival,
a quaking
a scraping
a tremor of denial.

And when you rest,
sweet thing,
when the cape is hung,
the whips are folded,
the dust masks
are debris-free:

dream I’m on fire.

Not a Lie

To say I stumbled across your picture would be a lie.
To say that I saw 2 pairs of eyes looking at me,
1 familiar, 1 unknown,
and I was not at all surprised
to find that once again
you were not alone
would be a lie.

To say that I was relieved by the debut
and that the joy in your smile
buried all doubts
that I was ever over you
would be a lie.

To say I never searched my mind
for those few good moments we had
and wrapped myself in every micro-second
of your flesh and breath
and grip and grin
and laugh and wrath
and every molecule
of space that you
took up within me

would be
a lie.


I seek sun like a Pilgrim.
The cascaded beams
are my holy waters
and I am filthy.

The stench of heat,
the aroma–
my moans stick
sugary sweet
to the insides
of your cheeks.

I breathe through
your nostrils and ache
when you drift between
awake and asleep.

And when I see white,
I know I am home.
The blinding color
of my versatility:

I am everyone’s and no one’s.

I have one T-shirt
I keep rolled up
in a heap, stuffed
in my wooden drawer.

And when I smell fire
and sage, I remove it
from its cave
and dip my nose
in the throws
of blue-hued

You are sawdust.
You are a workshop.
You are oily rags
of motor fluid
and cheap laundry soap
weaved between layers
of cotton Hanes

I nightmare often:
that we are strangers
in the dust storm
and we pass each other,
walking aimlessly
in the White Out.

But upon awakening,
singed hairs round my face,
splinters wedged deep
between fingers,
I feel your mass:

the warm weight of your eyes.

Dual Fool: A Curse on Memory

Like the pages of a newspaper,
90° and perpendicular
angles fold,
deep creases
form order of content,
such a sound structure.
Oh! The ease with which
one reads them,
then throws the stories
in a smoky hollow
of their mind.
Only to be retrieved so rarely
and yet owing so much in rent.

Let’s cut to the chase:
The uncontrollable
addiction to thinking,
and how it creates
the refraction of body light.
The mind hoax
screaming like a banshee,
“You fell for it again.”

I am in love with
the replay function.

Can’t live with them.
Can’t live with them.

Forgotten syllables
from crowded parties,
silent invitations
to your bed,
rejected nightmares
of floating orbs,
an expansion of the forehead
and of the shrunken ego.

A plural dual fool
I have become:
too many bare edges,
my center uncageable,
and with aura-splitting nausea,
my memory wounds
weep comfrey oil.

Your poetry refuses to die.
The wisps of brain matter,
warp into a fucking vermin trap.

And here’s where a shadow resides,
the gulps of its fingers,
the tingly, wet warmth
of words escaping its mouth
and snaking inward and upward.

I avoid blank pages,
quiet moments,
and empty glasses of liquor.

For when I hear you in those silences,
I abandoned the moment,
so I may sit,
fondle the tendrils
of vapor that slide
through the cracks.
I allow the sickened passages
to widen,
so I may inhale poison gleefully,
leaving behind blanket fire
of heavy want.

I am a snail,
bathing in salt.

Echoes of Scents

Echoes of scents linger,
the Patchouli-sickened gaze
back into my memory tomb
is a vertical slit upwards,
blood that pours evenly,
stains in patches,
grips fabric in concentric circles:
Venn diagrams
of all the reasons I left.

I’ve decompressed from you.
Gone to the desert and back,
gulped men and women like fire.
My inked flesh scarred over,
leashes unbuckled with teeth,
chains undone with feet,
I had bare skin illuminate
like moon veil and sheen,
and all wind-chapped regrets
leaked into the Earth
like whiskey spit.

And then things were lit
with matches:
a photo,
every haunting crescendo
whining from speakers,
and that downright
terrifying smell,
where I shelved you
and let you collect dust,
where water drips crisp
each page,
enveloped between layers
of black romances.

And there you ghost my evenings,
light the river of oil,
until I am an ocean of burning.

Default World Volume II, No. 1

Humanity has been cuckolded,
translucent intentions
cling to their sparkle
like a sea anemone
does to the ocean floor.

But we’ve given in
to the Disney plots
and chorus lines.
Sopping wet with fear,
we’re a rabid species now.

We get off on concussions
and botched nose-jobs,
we break every mirror in the house
with ill-willed flicks of our wrists;
we climax with selfie-sticks.

We’re sick with voyeurism.

It’s going to take more
than a few one-liners,
basement-lit hits
of coke and nicotine,
choking down Hennessey,
shoulder rubs from strangers,
and bad sushi
to forego the eruption:

time is the thread with which
I’ve weaved this dream
and I am slack-lining
the tension

with veins pulsing
with intention
and an ego
the size of Mt. Vesuvius’
holy chant.


The “default world” is what we call our everyday, normal life. We work, we pay bills, we drive cars not designed as animals and mythical creatures. And we love, we lose, we survive.

Many pieces here are about being in the default world, while the Playa awaits our return…

The air molecules gravitate,
they lock eyes, their
words are breathy,
fearful and less,
and more wrought
with rhythm and blues,
oh so many blues.

It was like the week
I began reading
a collection of odes
to blue.

Page to page,
cover to cover,
left lobe
to right.

“Too much blue
for one woman,”
I had said.

Too much non-blue
for one soul,
guitar riffs
like tongue caresses.
Your ghost,
attached to bars
of music.

I yank my hearing
as if I caught
myself listening
to past records
of oos and ahhs,

coded to your
the length
of your wave,
etched in color: