Hearing’s Horizon

Where the voices
of your head
Meet the singing
of the wind.
Where your ears
against the bed
Are listening to
something within.

Or is it without?

I have my doubts.

Is that sound
Right there
I’m not scared, for
I’ve heard before
Where hearing’s horizon is

I’ve heard this then
in the wilderness
A sort of singing in
the night’s still wind.
I thought it might be
almost too distant to hear.

Not something to fear,
Though I felt fear then.

How loud things seem
When you’re listening
The rain, your breath,
Your heart beating.

How quiet the world
has become
When sleep keeps
my eyes open.
Quiet enough to
hear the drums
At the edge of
hearing’s horizon.


Necessary Luxury

Ah, to have control over
My debts.
To have tethered
What I owe
To the wall
And say,
“I know!
I will pay you back when I
Get the money.”

I was late
Before this date
And I have to say
That it ate through me
The anxiety was
Not the true me.
It hurt gruesomely.

Now, at least,
I feast on the basic
Like lunch meat,
And cheese.

This morning,
I woke up an hour later.
I’ll shower later.
I want this morning to write.

I’m truly living in luxury.

I’ll Have Damned This Poem

Tonight, I

Feel like the guitarist

Whose finger slips from

The string in the midst of his



Sweet should it be

To sing and to believe

That I’m alive,

But alas, it isn’t,



I feel too large

For my room so I lay

In the larger room of the



Playing guitar

Softly as if to keep

Some pocket of silence

In the corners of the walls



Is it a matter of

Gaining self-worth?

Is such a thing

Worth gaining?


Is it entirely mad

That I feel both selfish

And vacant,



Yet too crowded,



But so full my stomach



I can’t sing

As I am a bird

With clipped wings.


I can’t seem to

Get any satisfaction

From reading or losing myself

In this poetry.


The sky is still cold,

My roommate still lingers,

And I still have not a friend who

I can say I love.


Of course, there are


But it is me I do not love,

Myself I feel alone with,

Only me who has to


With this poetry,


For who else is to read

Of it?


I wouldn’t damn a soul

To this poetry.


The best advice I’ve ever been given goes as such,

“Follow your own advice”

– me

We’re not here
To say
Go or go not,
Do or don’t,
This before that,
Or I told you so.

We are here to be here
For them, her, or him.
A friend to give compassion forth
And a strong, steady hand.

To say,
Rather instead,
This is what I’ve been through
That’s similar to
What your going through
Try this instead.

But if you don’t take my advice
I’m here with empathy.
No judgement either,
Because obviously
that advice didn’t work for me.

That’s why I have it to give
in the first place.
I had to kill myself and live
to feel your pain.

Writing the Wind

I can feel sleep sloshing behind my eyes like the sea pulling at the bow of a ship. My heart is the breath of my crew, safely kept away in their hammocks. I can feel the wind in my sails, driving with the windows open so I don’t fall asleep.
Getting to work, the crew is forced on deck as I dock the ship in the parking lot. All stand at attention, I clock in, and the day begins although it had already begun. The business of land is loud and distracting. Already I miss the quiet freedom of open sea.
At five, the ship takes off again, only to sleep in the harbor, forever close to shore. I wish to be out in vast water again. I wish to be surrounded only by stars and their reflections, not having to regret the day or anticipate tomorrow.
Work is like this for me.
I am not doing what I would like to be doing by day. And by night, I am too exhausted to do anything else. It seems, the only way out is to exhaust myself further. Become ambitious. Work for what I want most. This is why I am writing on my break, here at work. This is why I write, period.
It is what I love.