Monthly Archives: June 2017

Portrait of an American Poet

Ode to: Jim Morrison

Portrait of a poet:
Maybe the Lizard King,
maybe black leather dressed demon.
He self implies that he has the “soul of a clown,”
who blows it at the “most important moments.”

Drugs, liquor, women, art:
the ingredients of a male artist.
Mixed with talent and a vision
he found fame’s way,
lost the sunlight of the day.
Art made of pain,
an addiction
the media driving him insane.
up rise — down fall,
dead at 27.
Art lives on.

His art lives on.


I wrote this sometime in late 1995, early 1996. Jim Morrison inspired me to write poetry and start delving into art. At that age, he helped me deal with my mental health issues I didn’t know I had yet. Loved The Doors as well. Not my favorite band now but will always hold that place in my heart.


Unfinished Poem

I am the poet, writing words that spill
from my brain like a vial of ink
helplessly knocked over, dripping/
blotting onto a white sheet of paper
in sections. Each verse forming a metaphor,
simile or description about my thoughts and
feelings. I want to control the flow of my
consciousness but ideas and emotion
grip me tightly and sway the tide of rhythm.
I am the poet.

You are my muse, with your sunshine
smile that could straighten light in a black
hole and eyes that vaguely hide the fiery
spark of creation. Every time we talk
or I am in your company, your ideas, expressive
nature, vocabulary, and charming reactions
build the force inside me that attaches wires
to my creative instincts and pulls the strings
like a cable controller in a puppet show.
I am the poet and you are my muse.

You stir me to create a master piece, a verbal
painting that is equal to the Elizabeth I, Ermine
portrait. Each stanza, each line draws me
closer to completing my compelled
goal, yet, every attempt falls a stroke
or brush short. There is something that I miss,
a reason that my work can not be completed.
Perhaps, no poem I write about you can end
well, until it concludes with us



Written in 2011.

Phone Call

A broken, bloodied body,
delivered in the form of a phone call. Not
surprised, I ask about your current condition.
The reply, you are hung over in the hospital,
feet up, head aching, lungs too crushed to spew
venom’s that poisoned your gut. I wondered
when I would receive this spoken telegram of your mistakes.

This time, your actions were too inebriated to dodge
the bull of disaster, leaving you gored and lying
face down in a ditch; the ambulance arrived
before you became another matador statistic.
Two minutes after I hear you are stable, I bow
over my bed, hands linked, begging for,
more chances to see you.



Written in 2004 for a family member.

Collapsed Sun

A star, another solar systems’ sun,
expands, engulfing planets, swallowing
every bit of matter. Space transforms
into electron explosions, creating flaming
growth, building one massive body
comprised of energy and warmth. Suddenly,
this gorging celestial body collapses underneath
the girth of too much weight. In a short
period, the once ballooning sun becomes
a mammoth hole that thinly stretches
light, only reflecting black emptiness. Bright
rays gone, making way for a proton
sucking, anti-matter spitting gap. Doomed
to slowly pull all universe building material
into its long corridor of bent rays.


T0: N.H.


I stood in green grass
under a backyard clothesline,
my nose smelling blueberry
muffins wafting from an open
window, my eyes scanning, starting
with the white, rusting shed, then your legs,
finishing at the ripe garden.


In your tar-affected voice,
you taught me the rules of baseball;
do not swing the plastic bat at a first
pitch, keep an eye on the hole filled
ball, be aware of the actions of other
base runners, and regardless of outcome,
make sure to respect every player.


I gripped my bat, wise of where
to hit the mint-tinted wiffle ball.
You wound up, prepared to pitch,
ready to do what you never could
with my father and his brother.
The pitch came off of your fingers and I
cracked it over the gray back fence.



Wrote this back in my undergrad, 2003, read it at my grandmothers memorial service. It’s a close one to my heart.

Deceased’s Infirmary

For D.N.

We were walking on the frozen ground,
the deceased’s infirmary below our feet,
stopping at the foot of the beds of both
the old and the young. Charts at the head
telling us the vitals of their stay, many
pieces of information about their conditions.
Some lay together as a family on their last
outing, generations coming together
for a final reunion, and some lone with
the details faded out by years of wind,
rain and snow, peaceful bodies, deep
in their sleep with nothing left to say.


This is a new poem for me. 2017

Consummation of (our) Love

 beats from the heart
 (of your) drum, penetrating
 a solid skeletal chamber,
 cutting layers of protective
 insulation. Emerging
 from outer cells.
diffuses into a room,
 mostly flowing through
 the canal connecting sound
 to the center of (my) soft
 membrane that sorts choice
 between fun, lust and love.
thumps with Miles
 Davis, a drum beat
 to harmonize with trumpet
 fusion, creating a lasting
 moment (between us), 30
 seconds after the music stops.
—————————————————————————————————————————————— Originally published in the e-zine “Lunarosity” in March 2004. The e-zine is no longer online.