And he says to me
its crazy
you know, how we
can close our eyes.
Shut out the world,
out of sight out of mind.

His mind
swirled with chemicals,
mine frappéd with stress,
We lay in total silence,
bodies a tangled mess.

And I say, what about sound,
and every other sense?
He says it doesn’t matter,
if you close your eyes
and rest.

I breathe
a little slower
and drift off from the bed,
A philosophical lullaby mulling in my head.

Paradox of Choices pt. 1

Lost in a misery of choice,
with a mind clearly made up hours ago
I regret
to inform myself there never was
an answer.
no one will ever win.

To have no choice is pain.
But to have too many is worse,
and I feel cursed.
Frozen in time.
Paralyzed in lies.
Opposing options overwhelm me and
under a snow drift of sadness I say
I’m sorry
One of us has to loose;
one of us has to choose.

Retribution echoes 
in corners of my mind,
chased by regret and karma
it’s only friends.

Tell me,
What are the means to the moral end?

Philosophy of Time

The hardest part of waiting
it watching the clock —tick, tick.

Strapped around my wrist,
in a world that’s rushing by,
I’m watching the sliver of gold slide —tick, tick.

The time is merely, relative to my existence,
without this piece of metal I’d have no regard
nor care even, for how many times the plate slides —tick, tick.

Though I note this little circle counts even paces,
with thoughts of you, when my heart races,
I can feel the weight of it, slowing —tick, tick.

I can lift my head and watch the whirling of the city fly,
not missing a pace, all those busy, rushed, lives.
While my wrist slowly pulses —tick, tick.

My heart beats fast and the highway hustles along.
But I’m always waiting, watching the clock, slowly drag along.
Time, is just an idea. It’s not real, and it doesn’t really matter.
I tell myself all this, waiting for the last tick, to leave my heart shattered.

Sleep Talk

She’s talking in her sleep again.

Around 4 am every night

I get up to close the blinds

while she talks to the wall

about the microwave.


I watch patterns behind my eyelids

dance a ballet composed in stress,

and I listen to conversations between characters

that question my own fabric of existence,

and the fabric of my pillow case.


Smooth, cool, a few days overdue for a wash,

and she reminds me the jello belongs in the freezer.

The microwave begins to pop.


She rolls over, I roll too,

And she asks me if I ever feel the taste of the color blue.

She says that most nights, the stars pull her away.

The city lights tease her tongue

while her mind sits atop buildings

and watches police lights play hide and seek

with her future.


The clock burns shrink-wrap over my eyes

and I wonder if my dreams will ever carry me

as far away as she is tonight.


The television timer cuts cold

and she asks if it’s in our room.


I can’t help

        but wonder if it’s me she’s talking to.