I am the anthem that hungers a stranger am I, if you dare to be the silver lining in my pocket of memories echoing on the horizon courting the buried cold on the fringes of eternity… “if it pleases you”

The garden remembers…ghosts of butterflies at night among the thorns, slipping through my fingers, bleeding beetle juice scabbing over hinges of my mind’s jawbone and paragraphs left asunder. Trapped inside a mason jar, humming with the madness of forgotten radio stations. My laugh frozen in the attic dust, the exact pitch of glass breaking. Mom never swept the corners right, but she knew how to disappear between sentence...

In my quill’s queue, another voice…another dance an echo… perhaps a tap, in free verse murdering my epithet, lonely am I as quiet settles listening to my pulse, as I minuet with my ghost scratching at my memory’s door, no longer my name as my shadow wears no crown…nevermore am I

The seats are empty for an audience of my ghost as a parsing of silence begins an intimate soliloquy alone. In a theater of my mind feeing the pulse of echos presence. My phantom’s hunger for applause but there are no roses thrown at my feet. No critics to applause as I seek the kind that never comes. Like prayers whispered into a dead stone or letters mailed to an address that doesn’t exist. And for voices that never cla...

Isn't it so... mind to hold nothing to keep when shadows turn to dark academia's requiem-maestria midnight's tongue of blasphemies when fingers dance on flesh in the absence of dawn with a scent of tragedy as the shadows play symphony softly winds in atrium's cry as the ghosts of our genius leads us astray to pages rarely read, of requiem-maestria ...isn't it so

Shaking higher the midnight hour letting the allegro roll no slow surrender keeping the wheels turning burning faster until the hum begins to rise like hands sliding up the curve of a spine finding its way to the hunger fingertips tracing the pulse the hollow of a throat tastng the salt of the big naught a rhythm you can’t escape of the silk unraveling like skin on a clock stretching into minutes shaking higher the midnig...

The leather seat groaned under Beau Lucifer shifting weight as he tapped nicotine-stained fingers against the armrest of his throne. A salvaged airline captain's chair bolted to a dais of crushed Cadillacs. Carrying the scent of the taxidermied dead in mason jars, Beau a master piece of sculpted grace reflecting the glorious light of his creator. Now a face of corruption in duality. a Highwayman of sins sitting on his ass...

Beneath the neon lights in a room of a small motel, putting the hoodoo on me with your cat eyes and Mona Lisa smile. Listening to Conway Twitty on the electric radio and watching the way you smoked that cigarette, with your full lips humming. Sipping a cognac, with your fingers tracing my spine and the bedsprings singing a gospel choir. Testifying to our original sin between tangled sheets and bitten sighs. You whisper so...

Lucid stains of dreams echoing defying gravity with shadows of the dark bird. In this void decaying memories touching the ribcage of my mind. Reflecting the ice that burns through the floor dragging me down toward the throat of the night. With the ghost of my quill still wet from the inkpot, the silence stretches into a wire taut between my lobotomy. Disintegrating into insanity, a narcissistic butterfly shrinking into da...

A kiss of Cognac ring of fire from the crystal oyster glass with a scent of warm lips whispering surrender in the amber light the quietest deepest kiss

Nothing can be heard now with the absence of sound and silence of beaucoup of a breathless thing. Touching the soul understanding the willow listening to God and silence of beaucoup

"Once upon a midnight dreary," I whispered to the corpse of my Lenovo, the words slipping from my lips in a cadence not my own—a voice borrowed from a long-dead bard, thick with the weight of centuries and bourbon. The laptop's screen, now black as a raven's wing, reflected my own hollow-eyed stare back at me, a ghastly specter trapped in its obsidian surface. The corpse of my Lenovo sat upon the desk like a cursed tome,...

Sniffing the wildwood flower that blooms in the inkwell of my mind, where once there were woods. Now insanity vines deeper than my tattoo of grief—I carve the veins in Mama’s wrists, blue as the bruises left by her last lover. The one who didn’t stay long enough to see her wither. Not as she was at the end, but younger, grinning with a cigarette dangling from her chipped front tooth. The smoke curls up past my fingers, th...

I bring you this: a bouquet of shadows beneath my ink. They are not flowers, but the lingering shapes of things that departed before they were ever truly gone. Les longs adieux. The slow, agonizing drain of the tide, not the crash of the wave. You told me the city was just a collection of bones, but I know it is a city of ghosts, a sprawling, sun-drenched, desolate, and beautiful nightmare of eucalyptus and broken glass....

The bard’s fingers hover over the ledger, ink pooling beneath the quill’s nib at the end of the day, when cognac makes thoughts grow deeper than the waters where the flamingos unfurl their wings, touching the rhythm we call life between syllable and shadows in the body… we call insomnia, what others might call ghosts or insanity—hearing whispers: “Polly, want a cracker.” Tallying his mañana, he scrawled debits between fin...