Fairview Ave

Over ethereal haze of traffic and urban homes
the evergreens tower, but fade
to something less than backdrop,
vague notions of nature beneath the daily Real.
As we coast with complacent frustration through custom
their majestic singular green
blurs behind like highway passing lanes in the night;
but two minutes beneath the swaying scented pines
pull me back to my senses like a ghost into a body,
and all the invaluable infrastructure cracks like dried mud,
falls away before our living breathing bodies

On Being a Drop of Water in a Rainstorm

No one thinks you're special,
no one cares for the drama of your fall,
how you clung to the clouds fierce as fire
and fell with Luciferian grace when they pushed you out,
wings pressed to your back in the infamous dive
that could only happen once, that happens everyday,
and you wonder who is watching
and you wonder where you'll land, and you wonder
what music best fits your fall
as you plummet symphonic power
an inverted crescendo to the ground.

The Cigar in Berlin

Soft, slow burn,
power and comfort in carbon.
Caramel-brown paper wrapped round
so perfect fold lines snake in circle,
a helicoidal progress
like Breugel's Tower of Babel,
beautiful spirals that crumble to ash.
But it's all just window-dressing,
accoutrement to accompany
the ever-approaching ember,
my smokestack flame, my guiding glow,
a signal flair for God.