Note:  Before I post some of my works of prose, I’m going to put up some poems I wrote back in college.  This is one of a few that were published in the campus honors lit journal. 






disintegration and melanoma pollute the population

as myths and gods dance in the purifying fire

built with broken bits of comprehension and

last year’s intriguing academic ramblings


when you know you do not know, etc…those eastern

astronauts must exist in elegance, beyond the

muddy speculation that the saxons were destined

to deliver to the modern mind


in a few swift strokes, ideas are destroyed—don’t

tell me power won’t prevail—don’t be so naïve my

dear neophyte, my tabula rasa, my ideal form,

left behind in the cave by hungry strangers


“they will return for me,” you said, but the mongrels

never read your books, they care not for your myths;

what can you do for them?—that’s what they want to

know; can you mystify them?




connecting to the otherworld leaves me empty and

lusting for something more here with you, but i find myself

lost in confusion, abstraction, meaningless debates of

symphonic distinction


odes of passion and depression are no good now as

peyote kicks in and offers a more likable view of

the things around the periphery, but the center still

holds, william butler, it holds all too well


the social nuclear rods have their half-lives, bylines,

empty fossil searching ambitions for plastic and

sex…nomadic wanderer, are we really this silly?

the masonic coyote says so


the hypothetical progress is wrong and the drama goes

on—absurdity prevails in the desert where a man will kill

for water to die a day later; what did our prophets see in

the wasting, decaying soul of europe?


secret clubs constitute intelligentsia, our church of reason

lives on in the halls of the unlearned and houses of cards won’t

fall if you don’t blow…so, jack, tell that sax-man to blow,

transport me with mellow notes of purity


removed from language, freedom teases me as breathing

and irrelevancy take over, blow, baby, blow those holy

words of frequency, of raw tears, of mystic memories, blow

that horn, blow, blow, blow, blow


reduce me to the common dominator, reparations are sent,

guilt still holds us down, but the music urges urgency and

release and our bodies won’t let us go, cruel joke, infamy,

artillery, kill the music, it’s not enough