For Ess

This wasn't no childhood love story, predestined, albeit a bit boring. I didn't meet you on some Sunday morning street; we weren't given serendipity's blessing. We came across each other, second-guessing questionable choice of past lovers and pieces of ourselves we gave away, voices of self-harm on replay. We persevered a little, learned to whittle … Continue reading For Ess


Elope with Me

Free Verse ReVolution

We stopped at the corner store for smokes,
rolling papers and
a couple cans of Coke,
abandoning bicycles with
bent spokes by
the door.

The cashier let it slide when we were too
poor to pay
the bill, told us to
come back tomorrow before eleven a.m.

We’d be a county away by then
but I’d send change
in the mail.

Fly away like hunted quail,
avoid wanderlust’s more
populous trails, reminders how
we failed to adapt
to gunshots.

We drove all night to where the sun comes up,
posting selfies for no one in
particular to
except your
dad ’cause
I’m stealing his daughter with
origami maps and
papier mache vows.

If you want to lie beneath the stars after,
two newlywed nomads, I won’t be mad because you
were made for me.

Think of the tall grass as
our own little town, citronella
and the whole

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love’s a book of matches (2016)

Free Verse ReVolution

Love is a battlefield, corpses as real as they appear in nightmares; their long quiet stare embedded in my soul like a trench.

True love is a massacre, hail of gunfire across the present tense but dust gets kicked up and the future ain’t friendly with sand in its eyes.

Yeah, true romance is murder, if cynicism is a victim and quick death is the prize.

Love is holding everything I know would die, and choosing to keep its body warm, remove the shiver from its fragile form.

Love is that last defense, an enemy’s babe againt one’s chest, and raising it as your own.

Love is a crone, its beauty a facade sewn over centuries old magic, a visage of home in tragic takeaways, the result of practiced pain, last thoughts before the derailed trains of runaway addages.

(complete and utter madness)

Love is holding a book of perfect…

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Lovers at a Discount

I always thought Love a well-dressed puritan, storied traveler come to negotiate the meeting of minds. He'd arrive holding flowers of fortune, small wealth in his hands. He'd come bearing gratitude, but never demands. His white blazer and khaki complexion only spoke modesty, never perfection. Guardian angel between us, all the years we would yammer … Continue reading Lovers at a Discount