the downfall of the serial poet

skins soul and shins on
the sharp edge of a reality
in which he is
but a guest, where in one
drowning amber moment a
golden-skin-filtered finger brushes
hazily against un-
conscience: a heart
saying its
hands would kill
if they had the strength; instead
his thin wrists, tied
down to their bundle of bricks and
bruised dreams,
sink into spring’s
muddy riverbanks where
suddenly life is
but not

second circle


someone once told me never
to turn my back on an ocean but
truth is the lies crashed
over my head before i
could suck in my breath;
now buffeted by deaf winds and
drowned in tumbled waves i
slide noose-like under
waters too heavy to hold me,
scrape shins and
veins against a
shore all too willing
to forget.