Dazzle as She soars towards the setting Sun, forever rising higher that she flies,
this, beautiful,
clipped sparrow of Earth, ascending through the cirrus ribbons of Heaven, 
weaving for you the ladder you’ll one day use 
to arise,

and to follow, to
at some point, dear chick, join Mother by her side,

to regale her with the time you saw her climb,
into the mysterium of divinity after all those years chasing wind under the wings,

the feathered wraps that will enrapture you then,
as they already do and much closer than God,
or the breath in your lungs,
you’ll feel them someday, just feel them today
and weep as you may,
and friend, 

Dear friend,

Bury the burden into the branches. 

Let your mourning light dry the fear in your tears,
and you allow your grief to someday turn to song. 

The broken tree you stand on is not your stage to mount,
but the platform you’ll use one day,

to rise, 

to rise,

Listen to the wind va-room va-room va-room,
with exhaust that ashes on white jasmine.
The groan of its engine washes out the welcome raven,
and the fumes that coat the Priuses make the palm trees sway their way.
Never mind the scraping rakes that used to come over carports, no,
hoist the blowers, make them loud and make them howl
and make the hummingbirds repeat themselves.
Hear the breeze as it learns to choke,
the billows as they always suffocate,
while PJ’s on repeat with the hopes that within the hour
calm will overcome the plumes of smog,
the patron saints of nothing can wander through their hilltop chapels once again
and wallow through the bellows of their hearts twinge
that come alive,
that come alive when listening to the wind.

There’s God in the wind
his fingers solar flare and point to you
with the measure of His force
He combs over flesh
and through the thick of your hair
The magnanimous heat of his touch cooled,
As it soars above the crests of the Pacific
and to you and your matcha latte
He finds his way. 

Even when they’re mad at you even when they love you.

They’ll block you from the lives they’ve curated, conjured and salvaged,
lied to preserve and present.

They will convince themselves they’ve known no wrong while spying for your demise,

Bitter with the walls they’ve built to save themselves
from the fires thew two of you ignited

upon the world.

They will want to watch you burn, assuming they’ve preserved their veneer by climbing onto higher ground,

not for hating you, but for needing to see what would come of them should they surrender the futility of their masquerade. The price to pay, to pretend, to them,
to hope you fail so that they never will, so they can get away, and get away with all.

Not getting caught is winning.

They’ll still watch your IG stories even when they’re mad at you even when they love you even when they’ve loved you needing kneading your and having you, hating you for calling out their bluff when honesty was all there was,
hating you for seeing the thing about you two.
Blocking you to unsee themselves, hiding them to unsee you, hoping that you fall and flail,
simply to avoid acknowledgment

that they already have.

They’ll still watch your IG stories and you’ll convince yourself you’re the bigger, better man,

but then again, who the fuck inspects to check who’s checking in, you fucking egomaniac?

The glasses that I wear are fake.

Speculative drag, sure, 
From the moment I put them I assume at least a bit of you for once will think I’m going somewhere 

with something. 

I’m not, 

Because these glasses that I’m wearing are fake.

And yes, I hate them.

They compliment the brows nicely and when I’m hungover,
the lips of the lens hide the bags my Thursday evenings always bring, and


They were expensive. And I think that’s kind of cool.


I’m growing older, 
eyes are going colder and 
sometimes the light that mirrors off of them is the only kind I’ve got.

When I take them off, I’m just – 

a balding pretty boy, ‘boy’ used loosely,
‘pretty’ I’ll hold onto for now, I’m a

Cuban muscle crisis, crisis being they’ve begun to weaken. Just the ass is peaking, and the cock, 

You know, 

When I’ve drank enough water. 

I keep them on and I’m salvaged from age.

I keep them on and I’m free,


of disease. And I keep them on hoping you’ll listen to me when I say

What it’s like to have it 

When my glasses are in my pocket.

But for now,
they’re on and I hate them, okay?  

It’s the confinement of periphery, 



Of going extra for the ordinary,
masking all the extraordinary,
and settling for the fractured light off of them, 
instead of the one inside,
and relinquishing being anything more, 

For fear of being what we’d be
for fear of what we’re told,
what’s been said
what we’ve had to hear before constructing our veneers.

they’re shelters of our wounds, 

shutters on the windows, exteriors to our interiors, erected so that finally

We can rest in peace each night knowing no one knows we’re having trouble sleeping.

With them built, with these glasses on,  

We can smile through our screams.
We can wear kaftans to Ralph’s, in Ojai,
distressed Marlboro tees to Republique
and chicken nuggies at the SoHo House heaven high above 

unwashed seas,
burning man and burning up you’ve taken on the crystal fad, I see,
VIP LA Phil presents that conductor guy who did the Star Wars thing so pack your lightsaber bought from Disneyland,
and when people ask about that painting of yourself you bought for you just find the thrill in knowing someone wants to know 

the more of you. 

They wanna know

That thing that’s you,

That thing 

you do that thing 

your wallet got.

That thing about you. Just

combing over the bald spot.

Unlike all the times before. 

When we’ve always kept them glasses off.

Before we knew we could even buy them.

Unlike all the times before, 

When we were ravaged for being bare. 

Unlike all the times before, 

When we weren’t all

perfectly happy. 

Perfectly cured. Perfectly clean.



There is no freedom.
Not for me at least. 
Bottles of pills, the three for months,
the ones I need and sometimes skip,
in a paper bag from Kaiser crunched up 
in the glove compartment of my pick-up truck. 

Driving from the Sunsets I used to seek
the dog is sitting next to me,
Lucinda and Sharon’s strumming all for me.

Searching for my farm in Nebraska unknown,
where the job awaits 

and my man slow-dances at the bar on Tuesdays.

He forgets my name but not my drink, 
his denim’s stained, his toothpick
looking like he’ll hit you with his eyes, 

that’s when he cries, 

when a strong man dies, 

it’s what his daddy used to say, 

Daddy’s something he likes to say. 

He promises he’s never satisfied, 
promises he’ll fade away, 

it’s what he wants

His only want, 
the power of his certainty, 
the tears on his cowboy cheeks over the stars outside the club, 
the muffled sounds of neon crust his skin with dirt and 
the tilted hat masks his pain. 

He sets the five AM alarm to work it out, 
always working, never thinking, handiwork, 
the medicine of using hands, 
sweating blindly, parched for water so he lights a fag and drinks his milk, 
has a rocking chair that overlooks the oaks
prefers the wooden steps instead, 

The ones that lead him to his farm and to his work where he works to pass the days 
and gaze 
at the nautical sky as the Sun dips beneath the plains behind him, 
in his Nebraska unknown, 
the one I found for him, 
the one that’s far from what he used to know. 

The Tuesday’s rolls around, 
those tumbleweed days into nights, 
slow-dancing at the bar like the ladies we are, 
lassoed and roped from whiskey to groped 
Daddy this and daddy that, 
safeword’s the whispers mother never shared with you 
the secrets of what you are, 
the maps of where you’re going, 
where they wanted you to go, 

And boy
were you going. 

But where you going now? 

The bottle’s running low. 
The other two are shot to hell. 
Too broke to have the farm 
but broke enough for handouts.

The ones that

That keep you in California. 
Bring you back to California. 
Trap you lost in California. 
For that 

crinkled bag, 
the three bottles for months, 

the pills you need but sometimes want to skip. 
Sure to die, but sure to ignore,
to flee with Ruffy in that pick-up truck 
and daydream of slow-dancing at the bar with what you are, 
no, what you wanted, 
knowing what you wanted but you’ll never be. 

Wanted the Nebraska unknown and tumbleweed dreams, 
blackened journal lines, line-dancing too
Something else that’s more for me,

Driving back to L.A.,
prescription filled,
every day and every time,
wanting to be free. 

There’s this
paralyzing stiffness
of a red-hot poker 
with the head-shaped heart of a bull
that pulsates with a pumping gravity
up and in until it’s through, 

busting through,
the trachea and coming out the mouth,
that’s what’s pinned me

into the ground.

What was once the silence of agony
but a
gaping hole in the refractory.

After the I Love You’s bust 
the load’s for you but no, none for me, our hands began to slip. 

Cold feet,
the cold sweats
terminology for whenever the body stops shaking but the soul is still rumble-ing, the uh –

save the dread.

The euphoria of your skin, 
pressed-pasted into mine
now shrouded 
by the knowingness of one day growing,

ultimately limp. 

That the fires dwindle into ember, 
as the air we breathe begins to freeze,
the sun you used to shine on me, turns its back for good. 

And not for nothing, 
but the yearning desire to mourn for the moon, 
to dream again of what was had, what’s needed now,
needing to knead your presence into absence
into something now forgotten, all of it my fault,
with that

paralyzing stiffness.

That comes from having you.

having you.

Of knowing you, you knowing me,
not knowing what to do, knowing that you’re knowing me, 
matter of time
before someone goes for good.

For fear of what you desire, I can’t give to you

my moving deeper-closer into you,
it was never something I could be.  

Fuck man
that pulsating agony, 
the impotence,

Of never knowing who to be.

we took our hands into the pines and
for the view we knew we knew,
and begged it to be new, at least renewed,
setting Sun, speckled, caught
in the pools like tears we sought
looking down the hill at Cedar Grove.

Mistaken mounds for mountains climbed,
ascended once again
for that view of Oz on Bunker Hill, the one I showed you once
the one you promised was ours at last.

Asking how it’s been, insisting nothing’s wrong,
there’s nothing wrong, but something’s wrong
and sometimes people are simply wrong,

the placation in omission,
the appeasement of a view.

Cross-wired fires, deathscrolls inspired,
everything’s fine with talk of wine
and where to go once we’re down at our cars

that are parked by the Greek.

Keys in the ignition, there’s the thoughts of our position
do we flee or drive into a tree, fucking
tired of the rhyme and reason.
pathologies in treason, inside in spite of what we knew
was best for us,
that view we knew we knew

Until the inevitable flames of Indian summer come around
and the mistaken mounds of mountains climbed
are once again scorched
by the cross-wired flashes of all things hot
and we incinerate into phoenix ash with the promised blossom,
or unfurled crimson wings
and blinded flight towards our setting
Settling Sun.

Asking how it’s been, insisting nothing’s wrong,
there’s nothing wrong, but something’s wrong
and sometimes people
we’re simply wrong.

Some things don’t know what’s best for them
it’s why they don’t know what’s wrong with them.