Winter is our only other season.

its too cold, too quiet for me.

There was a moment when all felt well but it passed too quickly,

as soon as I noticed actually.

I prepared food for my son and I and it should’ve been quite good,

it probably was, but it didn’t feel good tho,

the way good food normally does.

My sons day equally boring, rained in, no friends in sight, just me

making coffee, smoking cigarrettes & staring into the night.

Not 20 words between us today,

both starving with our silence

the life of that we know.

when surrounding us at times,

this quiet, dreadful sadness.

Ive a bit of cannabis

but my appetites are low today.

Im on a different moon tonight and 

I no longer see what it is im missing

its been so long.

I can no longer see it, 

its so close at times.

Not no more. Part won.

I enter old into everything now, my jeans

barely see the wash, my face

rarely the razor…

NOW its very true…

although it always felt this way.

Only old dogs come to visit

the rocks that lead to my home.

Looking for bones (not my own).

No typewiter, not no more,

no more paper-skyscraper…

Why doesn’t the sea come and visit

my rocky shore…?

The cow moo’s, the cats knows

your door leads to the land of not no more



and all now, he is decoration.

How do you find me? Can you see my name? rising in the sleeves? can you see the light? today was the day of the squeeling… animal; one on the roof, torments me nightly. I hear the steps, I hear him land, and hes gone, my eyes too slow, he does not step on a twig, or brush against a leaf. Another tied up like another before him, due to some mistake in protocol…animals have it so hard. Another runs out of a wall too quickly, but is too slow to go back in…and all now, decoration.

“Rats” said Charlie Brown.IMG_4074 (2)

I admire people who can write fiction. For me fiction can only be an element of truth, a magnifying glass or a loudspeaker.

There is something about the sound of a soft rain on a tin roof. Its almost wind-like in its ebb and flow, as if someone were trying to tune into specific radio station and going through all the frequencies. Now that were sliding into our only other season, its hard to tell the time, especially when you can no longer use the sun as a clock. The sun becomes a sneaky child, hiding from and peaking at you unexpectedly through out the day. You can no longer count on him, hes free to do whatever he wants behind the clouds. The clouds are now your new sun, and watch you suspiciously from morning to night. The moon and stars have also punched out, replaced by a red and neverending piece of mis-placed dawn. The birds and wildlife are quite pleased with this arrangement as are all living things. The orchids and bromeliads finally relaxing and drawing water in humid breathes. This is the time of the year where I feel im on an island. Ive always played this game, even as a child. Pretending that just behind the horizon was a rocky cliff facing the ocean. The change in my mind and body was almost narcotic when I would do this. Very hard to stop this self-administered dose of joy. One minute everything is damp and grey and cold, and in one quick second the sun blasts through everything and every drop of water becomes crystaline and beautiful, everything green shades of emerald. The birds racing through the sky from tree to tree in lunatic extacy. Its like a sudden un-predictable rush hour, several times a day. And then suddenly your in New Zealand or Hawaii and not landlocked between two mountain ranges almost exactly in the middle, in the emerald heart of Colombia.

Or something like that…

Ode to sleeping pills

and the disappearance of the ego

into the mouths of angels,

in gelatinous, glittering mouthfuls;

Each piece of light,

a memory

an image

as elaborate as a dew-drop

a mirror

a moment

the world trapped in it,

 sliding down

into the angels golden belly

with a happy hum.


I upstairs,

listen only,

to the sound,

that only

electricity makes

as it

bathes the darkness

in false light.