2k words Short Story: Chain of events, The World Walker

World Walker

“You remember how we never even said hi to each other? ” Beccy told me. “Even when Keith threw the eight-ball at us, and we all played pool for the first time since your friends started drinking there, you didn’t say anything to me. In fact you spoke the whole time to whatshername.”

“Carmen.” I corrected her.

“Sandiago” she finished. I didn’t laugh and she didn’t notice, so I added a: “Wow that was lame.” But she only giggled like I was trying to be funny and not tell her that I found her unbearably annoying.

If she hadn’t lost her contacts on the pool room floor and I hadn’t been the one to find them by the bar, then we wouldn’t have ever started going to the gym, together, and there shouldn’t have been much of a chance the gym’s showers were under repair, that we would live so close to one another, and that I had made a move when she only had a towel on.

She squeezed my nose with her fingers, like a clothes peg. I wrenched my head away.
Said: “I moved house for you.”

She laughed even though I wasn’t making a joke. “We lived nowhere near one another. I had to segue into a parallel world where I lived in a smaller, dirtier apartment, stepped right through and away from a low paying (but money’s never a problem), satisfying job in a bookstore and you know what? Even with all the possible books that have ever been written I still haven’t got enough time to read what’s out there.

She laughed again, so to make myself clear I said: “And I did it because you are the most beautiful girl I have literally ever seen, ever, in all the places I’ve been, your body is a fucking private jet, a mansion, front row seats to every show worth watching, a blowjob from the most enthusiastic porn-star blowing like she’s about to go broke.”

Her mouth dropped open, which was coincidental, but because I was distracted I said: “That’s ironic.” She wasn’t smart enough to correct me. “I disgust you don’t I?” I said. “You know I only shower like twice a week? I can’t be bothered. It’s all deo.” Her face scrunched up. “Why are you saying all this?” She asked.
“Because I’m done, I’m leaving.” And I got up and started to put on my clothes. She went dead quiet. “It’s 4 AM.”
“I’m not leaving this house, I’m leaving this world, this universe. GG Beccy: I have always had the ability to slip into a parallel world. Or maybe it’s a new world. Or maybe I’m batshit crazy, hard to say. But anyway, I’m thinking this time, I’m going to be single. I’ve spent so much energy walking into desperate women who fall for me that I think I’m ready to do the old fashioned thing and plain old delude them till they fuck me.” I stretched. It was always a good idea to stretch first.

She threw a pillow at me. I dodged. Big smile.

She went for my phone.


It connected with my nose. She was really good at pool.



It was a good question. I have no idea what happens when I walk out. Maybe I just disappear, which would be mildly traumatizing but also mind expanding- think of the implications! For a normal person at least. Maybe the whole universe ceases to exist, which if the universe was infinite would make me the biggest mass murderer of all possible times and spaces. But I can’t be the only one, so it’s not like I’m alone in this regard. Maybe a copy of me remains. If so, I feel very sorry for him, especially the me who talked shit to that guy with the knife that time in the alley. Either way, fuck it, I’ll never know.

“SO RUN THEN SAM! RUN LIKE THE WIND!” Beccy said, with this very rare, intense look in her eyes that I’ve only seen her have during a real orgasm. She picked up the other pillow. I blinked, so did reality, and she wasn’t there anymore. I blinked again, and there was my new coffin: maybe ten foot by ten foot, a sofa that was probably also my bed, a bookcase that had a series of thick books on the top shelf, plates, cutlery, wallet and phone on the shoulder height shelf, and stacks of books on the lower, taken from the middle shelf to make space for my life. A folding table glistened with chip packets turned inside out and tinfoil microwave dinners scrunched up within each other like blood covered Russian dolls.

The memories came afterwards.

I’m a fucking paralegal this time. Godammit it all to hell. Then the loneliness comes down on me and I’m reaching for the middle shelf with it’s half dead bottle, don’t even need the new memories to know that’s there. And what’s this, taped to the lip? A joint? Amazing. Upsides.

I spend my thirty first year single, in the same universe. Jacky throws a drink in my face at Sherry’s birthday party, which I only get invited to because I overhear her talking about it at work. The girl of indeterminate age at the 7/11 drives me crazy for awhile, has me borderline walking into another world where we get to be married because I’m certain the way normal people might be, that if I was with her the rest wouldn’t stink so much. It’s like a retreat, a monastery where I pretend to be a desperate prole for 365 days.

The breaking point wasn’t a woman, it wasn’t some new shiny crap I saw in a movie that I just had to try (like a G fucking Six), it was Roger Mckay, my boss. It was when he chewed me out for being late, again. He had to do it by my cube, right before lunch, so not only did everyone hear, but they felt awkward about leaving. I’m not a bad guy, I’ve never raped, murdered, hell even assaulted someone despite the fact that I could do it with zero consequences. I mean that’s some darkside shit, I don’t want to go down that path. And it was a close thing, between using the scissor, shoving him into Lee’s wall, and what I actually did: which was to stand up, slowly, adjust my tie, not answer his enquiry as to why, and then hand back, all the way like I’m flagging a blind bus driver, then turn my weight like a tennis serve, and palm open, full on, bitch slap. Goddamn did the fat man go down. I said, after the shockwave: “You incorrigible asshole.” And then it was TA!, one more for the road, and he went to his knees.

“Alright guys, I’m out. Fuck you all very much. Also, Sherry, your boyfriend cheats on you. He doesn’t even play poker. I can walk between worlds and I am leaving this one.”

And just for funsies I decided to full on run at Mckay’s glass office wall, leap sideways and leave. As I did I think I felt something solid. Then nothing. Then a bed, a freaking soft bed. It only occurred to me right afterwards that maybe I do leave something behind, and in which case, previous me just bitch slapped his boss and threw himself through his office window. If he gets medicated, do I get medicated?

What if I suddenly rubber band back to my other paralegal self in that parallel universe? Fucking awful thought. Of course it makes me wonder, almost, about the implication of time. I tried to read about physics stuff once. Thought about having a hypothetical what if conversation with a physicist once. Hell, I even tried to be a scientist, but I never really seemed to concentrate enough to shift into that kind of life. It’s like trying to remember something you just can’t, you’re certain that if you focused enough, if you found the right stimuli, then you’d have it again. I gave up eventually, figured that in the back of my mind was the fear that understanding what I can do would change my ability to do it, or maybe I wouldn’t want to anymore. Ignorance is bliss. Arbitrary is better than horrible.


Jana ended me.

A fucking taxi driver. Never saw that coming. Never saw the accident either, literally- was stuck dozens of cars behind it. Like God had reached down and froze the traffic for two hours. I could have left. I could have said stop the meter. Instead I paid, I stayed, we talked for hours and it was completely out of my control. When I told her what I could do, she took it like it was some kind of funny story.

The line that did it for me was when she asked: “What if every time someone, or you I guess, ah, jumps- they create the world they want? So like, you make it, from nothing, like you are God.” That’s when I knew, I had to make it so we were together. That was cool, I’d never even thought of that possibility. Why didn’t I just skip to the marriage? I could have, but I didn’t? Because I guess I didn’t want to leave, it was such a perfect moment. If I jumped I could arrive in another moment, but it’s not the same, the memories would drip in, it would be artificial, even if I was God.

So I stayed. We found a favorite bench, we prevented her bed from ever getting made, I wrote her inarticulate letters on scented paper, she dragged me by the arm to shit I’d never like till I loved it. I loved her, obviously. I’d tried marriage once, but never a wedding. It was glorious, and I didn’t care about my new family, or my new friends, just her, she was fun, the wedding was fun.

Happiness is a funny thing. It’s quiet. I think that in the end, it’s quiet. It’s the opposite of running. Time is the only thing that runs, when you’re happy.

The odds of a plane crash are incredibly low. You could fly your whole life, I mean spend it all up in the air, and it’s still against the odds you’re going to die.

And now, why can’t I find her anymore?

I keep jumping. I keep going from world to world, looking for my Jana. She’s not there. Nowhere I go. It’s like, I don’t know. I’ve wanted things before, I’ve wanted things way less badly than her. But I just can’t do it.

She once told me that the number one reason she’d never believe I could do the whole jumping thing isn’t because it was impossible. She said it was because she didn’t think I’d ever leave people behind like that. That I could be that selfish. And I believed her.

She said: “I think a lot of people would, but not you.”

So I’m still looking. And I’m still getting older.

And I’m starting to wonder if I ought to just stop, and skip all the way to the end. But I’ve never tried that either, all I know is I can’t go backwards. But I reckon I’m going to do it soon.

Half a poem, half a flash fiction piece, mostly a fragment (800 words): The Smog

The Smog

On Wednesday she nuzzled me awake, like a puppy might,

Her nose cold as a kitten’s, in the air-conditioned cell,
I had rented for ourselves.
We checked the time too late on our phone,
Thought the tone of orange that sliced off one of her thighs,
Suggested 6 AM.
The haze outside had fooled us.
So we were both late for work,
On the bus I read, rather than looked outisde the window at the too thick orange haze,
I could not see through,
Disappointing; I had only just downloaded new music to try.

I had a headache till lunch.
Someone said: “It might rain soon.”

Someone else said: “No that’s just pollution.”

A VP came out and told us proudly that our stock price had gone up 12% today, I pumped my fist, hissed ‘yesss’ and counted two more years before I might get options.

I stayed later than the rest as usual. Except for a secretary who read me snippets of headlines from her phone, her tone perpetually quizzical, like she was discovering events that came as a suprise and that I ought to answer her perpetually rhetoricals: “Did you know that / Wow so / Apparentlies and According To BBC – a bomb exploded somewhere, killing some people, a billionaire did something, billions of dollars went somewhere, the progress of wars, less predictable than the sports scores- sometimes in the hundreds, when casualties crested thousands, that became interesting, though only if they were Europeans or something, Americans maybe.

It seemed that it took about 10 000 dead westerners to shock me as much as say, two hundred thousand blacks from some African country.

“Apparently there is a genocide going on.”

“Wow. That’s fucked up.” I said, and left out: “But I really need to finish this spreadsheet before tomorrow.”

Before temorrow I got to wake her up, pin her to the bed with two of my crab hands in hers, we made two fists, then love, rushed, forceful, racing midnight till we both came first.

I was at the airport Saturday morning. The haze hadn’t moved but we prayed for a typhoon on the train, to come and blow away the smog, at the cost of a few lingering villagers that had not yet moved into government flats. Across from us two mainlanders spoke, and she translated for me via text, writing messages on her phone, as quickly as she could, whilst I read over he shoulder and she never pressed send. The mainlanders were mules, sent here by unfathomably rich businessmen to purchase purses worth a years rent, the decadent, stupid fucking backwards assholes, even they were saying it was perfectly insane, how much money it cost to buy what they thought of as perfectly ugly shoes.

They wore nails flecked with glitter, painted a cacophony, they butterflied them in their mandarin patter, clicking against each other sometimes, a pool of gentle mellodic err shi’s and bou jyos, till a guttural bout of cantonese POG KAI’s invaded the car from an open station, quickly silenced as they noticed other people, and thus everyone bowed their heads politely, into their smart phones.

It was my first time flying business. There was no line at check in. I should have worn a suit, but I told myself that’s how casual I found going business. I asked for champagne twice, the second time as hesitant as when I volunteered my opinion at the meeting yesterday. The stewardesses, so much hotter than her, they took care of themselves, their make up perfect, skin so pale, tall as swans I watched their asses and tried to ignore the waste of a window seat- the orange haze reaching all the way up to the next nearest, waiting plane, obscuring half it’s tail.

The rush of taking off mixed with the distant joke of shot down planes, mad muslims, bad luck, bad weather, shit I’d have to leave behind in the event of an emergency god please don’t let me have to buy another Ipad I fucking loved that thing.

I put down my kindle when we we leveled out and suddenly, the orange was gone. A sea of blue dressed like infinity, above a plain of rolling ice tinged orange, like the cream that came with my berries for dessert. It just went on and I felt something new, up there, where I couldn’t go online, couldn’t message anybody, couldn’t leave my seat, had to stare at how blue, blue, clear it was, how far I could see, how I was not bored by the repetition of sky. Then below, distant through the smog, I saw the flecks of concrete towers, the ant like container ships, the steel, glass, and concrete fruits of progress, across a smoggy field.

And I wondered what the news will say tomorrow.

Spoken word: Werewolves

Every week I read out some poetry and prose at this open mic place.

Recently I’ve tried to perform some spoken word. Which I think is more memorized than read. I still haven’t quite gotten it down, so this next piece isn’t really a story, or a poem, it’s meant to be read out loud.

There is a video of me doing it but I won’t share that because embarrassment.

I am toying with the idea of uploading a voice recording though.



In highschool I rarely manifested as a werewolf except inside the toilet and when trying to talk to girls.

My werewolfness actually helped sometimes, boy those bullies ran, when I howled at them, or grew enough white hair that I could bypass the age restrictions on roller coasters.

If I could get away with I’d get a sicknote from Mom, I’d paw at her with my long claws early in the morning: “HEY MUM I’m a werewolf today, Write me a note..”

“Okay, just could you cut your nails?”

Couldn’t, they were claws.

Couldn’t go out when the moon was full. Kids didn’t didn’t like my long, loping stride, or the way I howled at the moon way past the point when everyone else was passed out. “CALM DOWN!” They’d say. Couldn’t, couldn’t stay as a man or wolf or werewolf it drove the girls crazy. I wanted to hunt them sometimes, wanted to run with them otherwise in a pack as a wolf and as a man was mostly embarrassed.

Never stayed the same shape.

Got on great with ghosts, ghouls, wizards, hated vampires because they always got what they wanted- at a touch, a dominating glance, they always managed to get invited in, practiced routines till it worked whilst I chained myself outside, just in case.

After high school I went to Europe for university because I saw in the corner of a campus brochure the green peaks of a real forest. Figured that would be perfect for me. It got worse and better. There were other shape shifters, trolls (I’d already met those online) and nymphs. Few werefolk though. Couldn’t get close to a nymph without going blind, though at least I could regenerate my eyes when I changed form so they didn’t have to cover up so much around me, thought nymphs were perfect for me, and me for them, and I was, I was the perfect friend. Getting friendzoned usually triggered a change so I tried to stay away from nymphs after that.

I got bitter.

Tried to find the others in London but it turned out the song lied.

No longer leashed, I would roam the cobble streets at all hours, but during lectures it was hard to hold a pen in these shaggy hands. I met a lot of people that had bad teeth, silver fillings, would bite me with their words, drew blood, the blood faded when I changed, invisible except for the memory of the hurt- that remained.

“You’re invincible.” They’d say.

‘So lucky to be a werewolf, most of us can’t change.” And they were right about how it didn’t seem like I was vulnerable.

The number one cause of death of werewolves are werewolves.

After university I was screwed. No werewolf looks good in a suit! I had to get three, one for man, wolf, werewolf and still I could turn on a dime, when someone’s mouth became a crescent moon, the werewolf would come out and ruin another jacket. That got expensive.

They blamed me for it. They always did. Just like the non-ghosts who accused ghosts of being transparent and ephemeral on purpose. That walking through walls and howls, were the same, were just cries for attention. They never blame the moon, or the blood I never chose. Even my family got tired when I’d change mid-dinner, break another plate and sometimes the chair. You can only own so much ikea furniture. “What did we do this time?” They’d ask. Tried to tell them it wasn’t them, it was the moon, I just change.

“Learn to control it!” They’d say.

“We can!”

It was a revelation.

“So wait, you’re all werefolk too?” They’d say they felt like wolves, that they thought of howling at the moon too, and then they’d do a poor impersonation of me. Frankly, it was kind of insulting.

They never grew claws. Never ripped apart objects, never tore apart relationships, get fired, get chained to their beds, how could they say they know what it’s like to be a werewolf? How could they say they knew what it was like to be me? How could they say I’m not strong enough to control it, that they were better than me, how could they claim to even be werewolves when they’ve never transformed into one it made no goddamn sense.

“Well, that’s because we can control ourselves honey. You should too. Cheer up. Go outside more. Get your mind off things. Look on the bright side. Ignore the moods, I mean the moon, ignore the moon, calm down, stop turning into a werewolf, stop it, it’s impolite, it’s awkward, of course she didn’t love you, of course you failed, you turned into a werewolf, just stop. Being. You.

The number one cause of death of werewolves are werewolves.

There aren’t that many of us. Most people only meet a few in their lifetimes. Or an occasional vampire to whom they recommend sun tan lotion. Ghosts who ought to stop talking to and hearing other ghosts because ghosts aren’t real despite the overwhelming scientific evidence that ghosts are real but most people don’t understand ectoplasmic chemistry or have even heard of ectoplasmic chemistry they just see Frankenstein monsters that need to learn to be human and not all the myriad, beautiful, frustrated, terrible creation that look like people.

But are like themselves.

They don’t like them they are scary and distracting and out of fashion. Sure the laws have changed. You can’t burn them at the stakes anymore so they’ll burn themselves burn off their hands their claws tear off their skin try to undo the costume everyone says they wear to find the human inside.

They never blame the moon. They claim to know the silver bullet and they shoot werewolves with it.

It’s a good thing therefore that werewolves don’t exist.

Just gays, obsessive compulsives, schizophrenics, lesbians and the chronically depressed

A poem: Anonymous


This is about anon,
Also known as 1352764621,
Who photoshopped a picture of Vladimir,
Putting it in Hillary.
It was funny and kind of hot.

This is about anon,
Who spray painted IP addresses,
Onto tenement walls,
Whilst AK-47-wielding too loyal men,
Walked lock step on his home town streets.

This is about anon,
The first person who cried out “No”,
The one who wrote the inspiring piece,
Who fight,
Unknown and unremembered by history,

This is about anon,
Who on his way back home from
The market,
Carrying a black plastic bag,
Decided to stop,
A tank,
Before disappearing,
Into eternity,
To live forever in every upraised hand.



Hong Kong people march. Roughly 500 000 people. July 1st, 2003.




Poem: And The Sandman Said

And the sandman said

Well you might have heard,


Dreams begin, scandalously, as sordid nothings.
They await, like phosphorous flowers, for the dark night,
And perhaps, I’d like to believe,
The cool touch of moonlight,
Before they burst,

And around, until, they paint the inside of your skull
The colour prism.
And so it is like coming upon a film,
That you know you like, and without trailers or ads,
And because, there is no one there,
You step up to the screen,
Tentative and alone,
And without pause,
Walk right through it.

No need to look at me like that,
I have heard that not many remember that step.

And then you arrive in a place, its colors bleary and bright,
Where darkness substitutes for lights,
And emotions, for plot devices.
Fear, falling freedom,
Reeling across the mind’s sky,

It is said that you fly,
And meet strange people,
And hear true things,
And wet yourself laughing,
And find yourself crying.

There are houses big and dark and populated
By memories and friends,
And both long gone.

There are skeletons of places, that you have been,
And here the marrow cuts,
Until you bleed,
And you see, the blood running deep.

Here you find companions,
As fragile as they are few,
That speak the same sad language,
And die with the morning too,

Here things tend to creep,
And move along sideways,
And here things tend to keep,
No promises lightly.
And here you sometimes sleep,
And wake up,
And here you tend to die,
And wake up,


And when the light invades your eyes, this all ends,
And dream is shown to be, a bright, cobwebbed thing.
Lying on a road, slowly dying.
Dissolving like an alka-seltzer, fizzing into nothing.
And confounding you with a drink, that you then mistake for


I’ve updated my About page too, with a list of stories.

I will add all my short stories soon.

And of course I love Morpheus, especially when his hair was black.

A very old poem: 1984+3

I’m currently working on a short story- and by short I mean something akin to my multi-part-tales which I haven’t done one of in awhile.

So for now, here is the first poem I ever wrote; I dredged it up to read at an open poetry, open mic event I go to.

I wrote it when I was…14-16 I think…hence the adolescent title (get it?).

I honestly think me and mine were probably quite lucky, to grow up with the internet in all it’s dial-up glory. I remember being taught by my crush how to ICQ and having my first creepy convo with a stranger. Fist pumping when my download speed hit 30kbps on napster. How carefully I chose one of the precious, twelve songs for my first mp3 player. (I think I picked the real slim shady…).

I believe there is a deeply gauged out line of demarcation (and getting deeper), between a pre-internet and post-internet society planet, and it’s pretty close to those that were born near 1987. Everything since, and everything after, will, has, and is changing so much. Maybe in hindsight we will really appreciate how far we’ve come and where we’re going. We’re still caught in it though, part of a tidal wave moving so fast that the act of stopping to define it can cause you to be left behind, and already wrong, and irrelevant.

Perhaps every generation says that (though not quite like that). However in this case, if you can read my words, you are a part of the change right now.

A couple of years ago a friend told me that he thought the world was going to hell. Proxy wars between super powers flaring up over energy, dictators continuing the steady march of atrocities, financial institutions and political institutions corrupt, morally bankrupt, and subverted, climate change and all those other horsemen all on his side.

He asked me for one thing that shows things might get better- what could possibly be arrayed against all that?

I said “the internet”.

He said I had a point.

Someone promptly messaged me on Xanga.com after I put up this old poem (OH Xanga…and geocities…and 56k modems…and altavista…and nostalgia…) the next week telling me the challenger exploded in 1986 instead. Shows what I knew.


I was born the year the Challenger exploded-
Child of the green Internet: I
Battle demons and the
Blue screen of death.

I am a partz of the Internet generation(s);
Many bits and bytes and all these conversations
Between Ones and Zeroes I don’t have to
I know
a billion bytes is still too little data.

We are the blessed 1s. (BO’s!)
No command-line-interface
for us! Operating System-
Windows to our Souls.

Our hands don’t make food anymore!
I knead words with my whitened knuckles,
And the worldz knowledge
At the tip
Of my fingers.

I can see anything with these fingers:
Its a simple search, and then I can hack
My path into even the places
That children aren’t allowed to be.

Because you see,
we were born the year the Challenger exploded,
And we had to ask
Why would anyone need stars?
When you can see them on a screen.


Poem: Looking through the glass

Looking through the glass

Cooling caress of cubicle air,
Rakes my flapping hair.
Past Michelle’s clacking keyboard and coffee baptized bobble head,
Reflects the pane of glass.
Through which drifts the lazy clouds,
Dabbed an orange shade.

Once during lunch to the vacuum drone,
And downcast eyes of the cleaner I pressed my nose,
Against the view and tried to measure,
The distance to the toy city stretched so far below,
The animated insect lives that hurried to and fro.

Then another grey morning.
Crammed together with my fellow zombies,
Views avoiding each other, our gazes dodge, parry,
I look outside through shaking minibus glass,
To spy the straw hatted trolley pusher,
Filled with garbage, rolling past.
The blurred red light dripped till green,
And we overtook another browned face.
Till ejecting ourselves with smoothed down suits, below the IFC.

On some Saturday I finished attending to the numbers on my tiny screen,
Looked up from my tepid, sugar saturated coffee;
Through glass defined by rubber seals, marking the outline of this,
Street silencing shield, an old man, folded at odd angles,
On the rough pavement faced towards the ever close horizon,
His feet rubbed the concrete, his bare soles gathering scabs and cigarette butts,
Uncleared trash, till our eyes crossed,
And an eternal guilt had me fishing for my Ipad,
Some cool touch sensitive screen
To deliver me from this urban dream.

Another Poem: Sonder


Sometimes when my mind feels filled to the brim,
With unhappy thoughts, heavy enough to pull me down,
I close my eyes, let my mind wander around.

And see myself on my bed, eyes dead I zoom out,
Through the white painted walls that shield me from other muffled shouts,
These walls of concrete in which live dozens of other lives that now weep, laugh, scream, crowd around screens,
Till I zoom out.

See the buildings rise like rectangular hives and around them the trees that grow so low,
The green scabbed over with gray platelets; watch the hawks that nest near antennas,
Converting corners into homes.

See the brown feathered sparrows selected naturally by the smog.
The insects that roam under every nook and cranny,
The way patches of flowers bloom,
Drinking of the slice of sky between our two towering homes.
This urban ecology, this habitat crammed with so much complexity,
And still farther out I see the city,

7 million lives and a billion lights blinking,
Beetles thread through roads on water ships lines tracing,
And yet the green exceeds the artificial wonders we’ve seeded,
The creatures, the minds, the myriad eyes, I cannot conceive,
Out further till I’m looking at what we call a country.

From up here the greens, tans, the tones of life are all I need,
Scars of mountains, wisps of clouds, our gray marks made,
Our noises not loud enough to reach me.
And farther till the sky glows with the blue scattering nitrogen,
The life permitting oxygen that quickens in all our floundering cells:
Watch the curve of our home meet the black that shows through all the gaps we look up to.

Out and out from this pale blue dot, this azure god we all inhabit,
7 billion other lives and the countless stories all begun, the ones that died,
On that tiny receding light.
Till Sol beams plasma into the night,
Our star crushes, compresses, expels heat, heavy elements to breathe,
chains of carbon to plot out our farthest dreams.

And out till the solar system, with it’s gravitation, engraved upon the fabric invisible,
Causes planets to circle in the paths they etch, orbit, and maintain,
Out till we spy from the side- the milky way
How many more roving rocks encased with air might there remain?
How many more lives, so many tiny blinking eyes, so many flickering lives- might this beautiful mess contain?
300 billion more stars, spheres that shrink ours to motes, embers compared to roaring flames.
And out so far, so far, across the void where other stars, gather: 100 billion more galaxies rain,
Light across a gulf of space so vast we measure distance with time.
How many other beds hold souls, that dream, and love and hope so hard?
Thoughts that reach my standing frame, faster than light,
Brightens my mind,
Like candles kindled in the night.

Poem: In passing

In passing

I hate the way the day drifts by,
How the tens become elevens then one, two, three.
It’s a counting clock that resets each night,
When sleep tricks me into believing dreams.

I try to face forward on this train through time,
Though the winds blow me back to past stories,
I’ll never be able to breathe the whole sky,
A child of blood, barely tasting infinity.

An eye that see’s


A poem: Be Honest

Be Honest

Make them rhyme,
Make them dance in time,
To one another.
Let the cadences rise and fall,
As you try with words to contain it all.
Why can’t we speak directly,
Of things so complex,
Seemingly intimidated by simplicity.

Say: “you are lonely and you wish you weren’t”.

Instead with metaphors padding,
The room you exist in.
Expand your soul with similes,
Like how the dead ones did:
The ones you try to imitate.

A roadmap before cars,
Of how far profundity goes.
Poets and thinkers,
Gods and priests,
These long gone men that defined the parameters,
Of what it means to dream.

Why can’t you say it out loud?
Be proud and say: “I am in pain, please help me.”
Or :“Sometimes I still dream about you.”

Instead of the winding ways,

The words that stand, sway,
Always indirect,
You never just say:
“Please just stay.”