The Sound Of Listening


The soundness of judgment is composed from the silence of listening.

The Ripples Are Confused



The river runs grey today

Echoing the action of clouds

They move, as it runs

We are underneath, on the banks


The river is smiling at us

This leads to a flood of sky

Movement, on the way

The flow can’t be trusted


We are on the coast

Our houses hidden inland

The moss, on the roofs, built

Of Branches reaching overhead


We dip our hands in the cold

Our lawns, the frozen current

Left to grow gray, abandoned

A false green, wanderlust concrete


The ripples are confused

The river is bent under will

We are dams and dikes

The grey is always today, always was


The sky brushes against our skin

The river seeps, never asleep

We pave the damp ground

Our Roads are wet ribbons


Tar bubbles and pebbles

We magnify our stagnancy

Tires circulate, escapeless

Rocks embedded in tread


Our faucets are rainfall

Foothills filter our lives

The stream, captured, moves

We are but ripples, confused

We Awaken In The New Dry Day


You are like the missing rain

Only the mist has been caught in the trees

A thousand kisses fall to the ground

Mud has formed at my feet

I am on my hands

Tracing your lips


Wooden steps support me

The world is on stilts

Rivers run brown, slow to the touch

Roofs burn in the sunshine

The leaves fall too early

Reservoirs lie abandoned


I reach for the one green leaf

It is dust, your body

The rain is trapped within your mouth

Earth is the only blue, like bodies

My hand moves across skin

The new desert


The fruit opens the sound

A suckling in its own juices

A bed, with sheets built of seedlings

Which, I lie, in the wet spot

Seeping into the mattress

I pull the sheets under me


We awaken in the new dry day

Beyond Words


She vibrates on trails high above Tunnel Falls, where lakes colder than winter wait. No one sees her, only a wake follows. Her apparition is enough to remind her of words left behind—words which cut into her skin—permanent wounds. Not the simple healing of scrapes and abrasions. Once a word drills itself into your life, you bleed forever. She searches here, among wooded trails that crisscross, meet, and intersect. Quiet is somewhere. Quiet is nowhere.

Death is a question for her, an inquiry that begs for no answer. Stillness responds to no one. An explanation would calm chaos, quelling the tallest crashing waves. It’s an impossibility isn’t it, what she looks for? The death of words only occurs in total silence, where no heart beats, where no nervous system hums, beyond the vibration of ghosts, beyond the ability to haunt, as words have a habit of haunting.

Forest trails never end, no matter how many times she wanders off the path, wandering away from the past, where snow pretends to sing a soothing song and branches of the biggest Douglas Firs fill dead nostrils with desire. The past never ends its stretching out into the future, before her, built of stories, false, with a showering of truth, sprinkled by well-planned words. This is the story she roams within.

Stories have an ending, but not to ones who write them and certainly not to characters who live within. All they will ever say and have ever said are living as worms within her blood. She can’t take a knife to herself and end it all, for she is already not alive, reborn into death. Words bounce along the roots and rocks, threatening to continue beyond.

She refuses to come back inside. She transmits no warmth and toes are chilly to the touch, and her mouth, an ice-cold kiss. The out-of-doors is embraced, an undependable theory she must fashion—interpret—words, bend them to her will, as others shape them into weapons. She searches for quietness, outside paragraphs, chapters that cut deep into her outer shell. She writes, when the rain turns to snow and her body is carved upon in longhand. It is not the coldness of the body stilling the reading, the fleshy soft housing trapping the soul, but a home where quiet lies and roving ceases.

I Want To Tell Those Eyes



The window rattles every time a door is closed.

They are being closed all the time.

I place my hand on the window to stop it from rattling.

Unfortunately, this brings me to the point of being able to look outside

My hand tries to block my view, but I fail

I see out, where there is no rattle

My eyes meet another’s

I didn’t mean to

I want to tell those eyes that I didn’t mean to look

It just happened.

I’m just trying to hold the window steady

I want to tell those eyes that doors are constantly slamming


I want to tell those eyes how lucky they are

outside where doors can’t be slammed

where windows are not needed

I want to tell those eyes something passionate, clever

That it really isn’t about me, even though it is

That it really isn’t about those eyes, even though it is

That I can live without those eyes liking me, even though I want them to

Another door slams, my hand feels the vibration of the window

I can’t seem to stop the window from rattling

Short Sayings



I swear someone or something slips me a sentence or two every now and then. They speak to me as much as they speak to you. One word contains whole sentences, paragraphs, and a tumult of emotion. They dance around inside of me, making my heart stretch beyond its limits, beating its way to an understanding. This dance lasts for only a fraction of some unknown non-time, where I get to feel the very limits themselves.




Beauty is not looks, but the ability to look.

Static Leaf


The leaf dances

Around every corner

Around every thought

Even in the avoided song


Now upon the ground

A rush of wind stirs

Hands like autumn

A distant radio is heard


Gathered in piles

An invitation to jump

Soft at first, then asphalt

Static, a lover’s whisper


Raked bare sidewalks

A desert of cracks

My feet are soft

I sing the same song, continually


For the return of Green

Buds of my passion

Birthed in warmth

My ear tickled by rustling


They hang onto mothers

A fragile childhood

Bathed in heat

Time is a refrain


Slid from my hand, again

I turn my palms upward

Bits and pieces

The staffs are full of tears




Before The Snow Falls Again



The snow makes a sound

When it is the most silent

Spoken layers, hot tongue

Venom love, words drop


The ache twists, gnarled

Shoestring fingers grasp

A cold hold, on a softness

First appearing as steppes


So many footprints, now

Lead into the empty green

Forest, trampled high against

The clearest of skies, that

Scorch a stinging, chilled breath

Into a tingling loss, where

The tips of toes and other

Firsts out of socks, scratch

Across the brunt of blue, digging

A deeper hollow made deathly purple


The meadow cannot be seen

Flowers wait their turn

Begging for Earth’s mortal cycle

Blood, Moon, and Gravity


The dirt, grass, and weeds, are

Sirens bending the ground

To circle round, to rise, waxing

Before the snow shrieks, again







The Supposing Ghost



I was a quiet ghost and tried to leave the Living alone, sucking in sweet immortality, breathing the fine particles of the afterlife, inhaling string theory, and feeling the curvature of Earth with the bottoms of my nonexistent feet. Death was easy. There were never run-ins with ghouls, spooks, or feral spirit guides. All the dead stuck to themselves and some of them never left their coffin, their own private condos. And why not? Death is also a bit boring. I will tell you one thing you need to keep in mind, there is no space-time continuum for types like me. We can be here, there, or anywhere in no time at all. But, that also was a problem. That left me with a big gap of nothingness to deal with, as if death was a large expanding wall-less balloon, full of a bunch of null that needed to be filled with something, something hot, something possibly flammable, excitable. This is why I couldn’t leave the Living alone. He was put there (or here if you prefer) to stir things up.



The Living was a depressed pig. He was always up to stupidity that could even interrupt eternal rest. He argued with anyone who would give him an ear, he picked at himself, and ate weird stuff that came in all sorts of colors, boxes, glasses, and containers. And then after a meal of stuff that ended up rotting inside of him, he would make distorted sounds on machines or the machines would make distorted sounds at him. Sometimes it was hard to tell who was making the noise. He always needed things to put things in. He would lock things up and hide stuff, then worry if anyone saw where he hid the stuff like everything was special. No one was ever watching him except a ghost, like me. Strange or stupid? You decide. And then he would drink himself into babbling nonsense. No, babbling is too soft of a word. He would shout himself into a drunken rage and then fall asleep. I don’t know how better to explain it to you. Ok, I will admit he did have a good side, if that’s what you want to call it.

His good side was not much better than his bad side. Come to think of it, he really didn’t have more than one side. He prayed to all sorts of made-up deities, gave money to charities that fed some people and starved others. He painted, no it wasn’t painting, he constructed pictures that looked like plastic whirlybobs with metallic gears and sticks. He called it inspiration.

From my perspective, the Living looked like he was just wasting time, one thing he didn’t really have much of. I mean, wouldn’t you, if you knew you didn’t have much time, be spending your time more wisely? However, and here’s the creepy part that scares me, I was attracted to his wasting of time. It was the one thing I personally had no concept of.



As I said before, Death is full of too much space. Whoever invented it should be seriously questioned. Was it you? If it was, I hope this little story acts like a little window into setting you straight! It’s much more worth it to live and be an idiot then to sleep peacefully forever more. If you are the one who invented Death, then I think you should change the Living into lasting forever or at least a lot longer then it does now. Hell, give the poor sap a chance to screw up for a long time. He might learn something and it would be entertaining at the same time.



My suggestions were nothing new. I had come to this conclusion a long, long time ago. At least I think it was a long time ago. But to make a long story short, or a short story a little bit longer, I did pay witness to the Living attempting to simulate Death. He only did it once. I know, I know, unbelievable. He would sit still for hours with his legs crossed like a bug and empty his mind and disconnect from his body. What? Why would you want to disconnect with the only time you have? I had heard of zombies, never met one, and for a moment that’s what I thought he was, like his skull had become so easy to crush you could do it with a nutcracker, but no, to my surprise he called himself a monk. There’s nothing like trying to waste time when time’s a wasting. (Ha, that was a bit clever, but probably doesn’t make much sense to you or me for that matter.)



But, like I said before, the Living doesn’t live long. Perhaps, you called him by the wrong name. You should have named him the Temporary or the Fleeting Moment, or the Passing By. I know these names sound like bad band names, but hey, I wouldn’t call myself a writer by any means. I don’t come up with good shit that often. So, if you want to come up with a better name for them, be my guest. I’m just offering some amateur advice. Take or leave it. I don’t make shit up like you do. Just in case it’s you who are responsible. I’m just supposing here.

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