Ink spots— You Rorschach the tea As I Lichtenberg figure The dips and peaks Of thought and speech. The timeline crackles above, Wires filled with fire, Water, a maze below. The radio’s voice cuts in and out, Like a heartbeat unsure of its course. “Cataclysm,” say I. I don’t measure out the Length of days anymore. The radio agrees: Static at the helm, Beep, beep. I know not what to say. The storm of the sun extends, Sinuous snake, on and off. We sleep and wake, Radiation like an X-ray.

Let there be no misunderstanding, I do not advise losing control of the bridle, nor do I advise drunken knife throwing at live targets, the old William Tell. I don’t recommend the rose colored glasses for the grand proof of tragedy, our limited perception mixed with cause and condition, the…

The tagging grew ever more direct, The writing on the wall, more personal, But I didn’t care to see. I served rainforest jelly In the ramshackle Under the broken eaves. Shadows, shades, projections Slipping in and out of lamplight, Crackling the bones of the city, Sleepers eyes turned down To the sparks through the window. Bloody paint welled up from split sidewalk, A spirit not quite forgotten underneath. The birthing of the crops, the stride of the horse, Direction in rich sunlight, The swelling of waves, A revolution spelled out in service and sacrifice. Murmured the flowers the secrets of names. Long life to you. Long life to you. Long life to you. Like a scarecrow, like a dead man, like a mari lwyd.

Let me put shape to thought. I remember when Facebook started showing everyone what their friends liked as well as their friends’ friends. It was like the tech wizards went playing with matches in a late summer field. People who always got along started hating each other seemingly over night…

Dedicated to Frank Bergamo, my great grandfather, an Italian immigrant who sailed across the Atlantic with his wife, losing a baby during the trip. He became a Wyoming coal miner and later lost his wife to breast cancer. …

Bias is bias regardless of how highly paid you are, how popular you are, or how self-righteous you may be. That is what is so troubling about modern news reporting and popular opinion based talk shows. Entering an echo chamber is like entering a vacuum. It’s not interesting as other…

Perhaps it’s a legacy of too much milk and honey. The currents of time lead us to the lotus eaters shore, and too many of us do as the lotus eaters do. The principles and struggles of yesterday are thus too easily forgotten. In the absence of correct memory, it…

1,000 tales 1,000 songs 1,000 beats Each a fragment of reproduction, Dimensions of the theoretical space Of someone I have never known, Profundity like boxes checked -The old relatable- She is a sprinkle of appealing, Differénce at the center of the loop, A normal peak expressed, Quaintly at the dinner table or Menacingly upon shadowed streets. Bent angles and charm, There’s a natural expose within the sounds,

“What are you doing?” “Watching death again.” Yellow, I had trapped the sun. Orange, within a false cosmic egg. Honey yolk, there is no death. The shell interrupted breaks To a black rot, Shrill like a daisy screaming, The egg’s disarray, I fuse again, Planting the cold celestial cry In heavy, dark earth. Above, the living scent of lemon’s birth, Punctuated by the vibrating of wings, The mystery of life in a bee.