this is the hand
that use to hold her
this is the hand
that once felt her warmth

though I’ve still got my grip
I’m feeling more stripped
of my dignity
than ever before

this is the hand
that use to hold her
this is the hand
that lost this cold war

as my soul starts to rip
we shake hands (not fists)
with civility
why, what else? of course

Written: In those dark days between Christmas and the new year, 2016


How Thin Of An Apple

how thick is the crust of the Earth?
how thin of an apple is red?
it’s surprising to find
such simple questions behind
the cobwebs that clutter my head

how many heartbeats since my birth?
how many more breaths ’til I’m dead?
and just how many times
will I close both of my eyes
rejecting such questions of dread?

Written: December 20, 2016
Dedicated to Carl Sagan, who died on this day in 1996.

Hammock Day Dream (Delusion)

I can’t wait to lay on a hammock with you
in the future, when we’ve both got nothin’ to do

we’ll swing back and forth as we reminisce
(since the first time we hammocked was the first time we kissed)

yes—sun through the treetops, grass covered in dew
I’ll be laying on a hammock, in the future, with you

Written: December 17, 2016

Flag of Earth


underneath the Flag of Earth
you lay with me, oh mine
an oscillating electric fan
cooling skin, easing mind

and as we kiss, those colors wave
representing what we are—above
you: ray of sunshine / me: placid sea
moonbeams cast shadows of love

but now the Flag of Earth is still
no more humid undulations
the fan is somewhere in the closet
it’s almost Christmas vacation

you’re no longer here—to have, to hold
and those colors? they seem faded, greyed
so I’ll lay here lost in symbolism
reevaluating brighter days

Written: December 9, 2016