~sorrow of sunflower~

Staring at this dirt

decaying limbs of twigs

wrap around his

weathered sneakers

His bluffing figure

folds to the ground

shoveling the soil

searching for something

searching for anything

Torquing his head toward the sky

he surrenders to the horizon

a cloud weeps melancholy

that soaks his skin

that saturates the soil

before him


Opening his eyes

his dammed despair

a forgotten reservoir

releases streams

relentless tears

down his face



Through his

sodden stare

stands a single sunflower

shedding its

last petal


~broken bridges~

Is it not I, who destroys?

To prove I stand in this land

as an abandoned man?

It is not I,

who patches the concrete cracks

of bridges doomed to collapse,

crumbling from egocentric acts.

It is not I,

who welcomes difference and progresses.

Standing as the last bridge depresses,

the true culprit confesses.

…It is I.

And it is I,

devoting with remorse

to seek correction.

With devout Force

I shall repent my defection.


~can of beans~

Fred Meyer.

Attractive discounts for everything one could need.

As I enter through automatic doors,

I am terribly hungry.

As the old saying goes:

Don’t go grocery shopping on an empty stomach”.

Every aisle teasing my appetite

with a vast selection of food and beverage.

I make my way to my

beloved buffalo wings.

Why not get dessert?

I treat myself and grab a carton of

Ben and Jerry’s cake batter ice cream.

Salivating at the snacks I hold

I race through the store

debating if I want anything else.

Taking a shortcut through a few aisles,

I bump into a woman.

My cheeks redden to cherry.

Fighting embarrassment,

I quickly apologize.

I strive to be a polite gentleman.


I am taken aback

by her haggard appearance.

Dark shadows sag

beneath her fatigued eyes.

It seems as if she

did not even notice.

Without looking at me,

she mumbles:

Yeah, whatever”.

Her voice croaks with a harsh rasp.

The hopeless and pained tone

to her words makes me uneasy.

I pause and stare,

her scornful demeanor puzzles me.

She reaches for a can of baked beans.

The tremor in her hands struggles to grasp the can.

Before she realizes

that I was awkwardly watching her,

I scurry out of sight.

The idea of a sweet drink entices my thirst.

I walk to the opposite end of the store

and snag an Odwalla smoothie.

I am now ready to pay and leave.

I realize that the same woman

is in front of me in line.

It is half past ten on a Wednesday night

so the wait is short.

The cashier scans the can of beans

and the women passes over

a crumpled dollar bill.

He lets out an exaggerated sigh, stating:

“Ma’am you are eighty nine cents short.”

The woman’s shaky hand

clenches into a fist,

as the other snatches

the dollar back.

Her shoulders sink

lower than her 

already defeated posture

and she shuffles out of

Fred Meyer.

Sympathy overthrows my mind.

This woman can’t eat dinner tonight?

My stomach wrenches and I am…


I feel responsible and obligated

to help this woman.

Absorbed by the tornado

of emotion storming my mind,

I completely forget I am next in line.

The cashier is now glaring at me

and repeating the price for:

My buffalo wings.

My ice cream.

My fruit smoothie.

How could I eat ice cream tonight

when this woman is starving?

Fuck this

I aggressively blurt.

Fellow employees shame my outburst

with silent scowls.

I leave my items and dart out of

Fred Meyer.

I need to find her, and help.

The dark of this night

and the dim parking lot,

subvert my efforts.

Minutes pass and finally I spot a figure.

Across the street,

disappearing into the distance.

They are hunched over,

pushing some sort of cart.

Plastic bags are tied to the sides

and a blanket drapes over the

figure I strain my eyes to see.

I can’t be perfectly sure.

But somehow…

I know it is her.

And she is gone.

My lips quiver

as I light a cigarette.


I don’t know you

but I have failed.

If I acted quicker,

you could have eaten.

You would have known

that someone cared.

Thank you.

For I have come

to despise my privilege.


~dead roses~

A graveyard

of red roses.

Once a beautiful bouquet,

but rage conquered reason.

I hurled the bundle

against the walls

of my chamber of isolation.

It was a delightful disaster.

Twelve roses laid

crushed on

my carpet.

A graveyard

of red roses.

And instinctively,

I was frantic to rescue them.

My muscles were controlled

by desire to protect their vitality,

despite the hypocritical position

I have placed myself in.

I understood

that their thorns

would result

in both blood

and scarred skin.

I gathered

the fallen flowers.

I rushed them to an

intricate glass vase.

Submerging them in water,

my limbs ceased

to tremble.

Validation accompanied

a superficial sense

of self-necessity.

I spent the duration

of that blurry night

paralyzing my senses

and deafening my thoughts.

Anything to silence

the trouble lingering in my mind.


Comforting the distressed

and placing another’s

welfare above my own

was not a “selfless” act for me.

The abyss in my chest is gaping,

as I continuously attempt to fill

the emptiness.

 A graveyard

of red roses

now stands erect.

Mottled with stains

of my blood.

Maybe someday,

with emphasized ambiguity:

another will guard me

in the same way

to which is my second nature.

Even if self-indulgent motives

lie behind their actions.

A graveyard

of red roses.

It was me who destroyed them,

and I will restore life once again.



I have come to dread Saturday night.

Abandoning the expectations of

youthful adventure,

I often settle for the routine intoxication.

Seldom do I gamble

for the improbable

sensation of intimacy.

But tonight,

this distasteful date of Saturday:

I expose my eccentric character

to a room filled with strangers.

I scan the dimly lit room

searching for a friendly face.

Or, even…

someone who acknowledges my presence.

I see her.


but dancing to the mediocre music

as if she was not surrounded

by twenty likely judgmental people.

I admire her courage,

and reluctantly

admit to myself

that I was envious

of her free spirit.

I am drawn

to this sparkling woman,

illumining the somber ambiance

I conceal myself in.

My nerves have a tendency

to seek liquid solace

to gain audacity in approaching

sightly women.

The inclination to suppress

my already waning sobriety

surprisingly escaped my mind.

I deserted my glass of dark liquor

and set forth in her direction.

The enormous speakers

blared music without a second

of silence.

I ignore the irrelevant music,

and the drunken idiots

blocking my path

to her.

I made my way,

and I am now standing

directly in front of her.

Her figure is elegant,

energy radiates from

her contagious smile.

I realize now,

that I clearly looked foolish.

Here I was…

staring in astonishment

as she continues to spin to the music.

And then,

she grabs my hand.

Whispering in my ear,

“Don’t stand still like every stale person here,

move with me”.

I dance with her.

Her body speaks a foreign language

with her melodic movements.

I am native to this feeling.

This feeling that is surging

through my veins.

My common sense fades

as the tune of hopeless romanticism

captures my will.

Dawn is inevitable,

the hours of darkness

remaining in this Saturday night

will rapidly pass.

She may never know my name,

or remember my face.

But for now,

I am limitless.

The sorrow harbored inside of my soul

spectates during this

enchanting encounter.

For this Saturday,

I shall dance.


I shall be free.