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.

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