* All writings are anonymous unless specified
if you want to submit and you know who i am just hit my line
Ill post it no judgement
I know there are bards in my area
ps: ill try to set up an anonymous inbox for submissions*


what have i learned
ah well,
much about the apple plucked off that tender branch,
curled down,
beckoning your eye,
ears turned toward every horizon,
way out,
glistening in the midst of impermanence,
a lost and lonely jewel,
reflecting the light of the sun,
waiting for the song that rises up from the dust,
with somewhere somesign ago,
then a land called harmony,
where the word is the breath is the bird is the bugs,
is the rivers all running through dirt and the mud,
where the word is the sky,
and the winds are chasing the sun to a place that is yet to hear a whisper in the night that just says tomorrow.
and now,
here i am,
sugar on my chin,
damned to sin again.
but i have seen your face,
and i know that ill hear that song again in my mourning,
and it will be a great comfort then.


Run run run run
Run run run run
Run run run run
Run run run run

I might trip to skip and chase some secrets up and down the block
I might remember the water where we used to play on that old dock.
I might feel for the frogs that we had lifted from that tiny pond
I might be waving out the window thinking now it wont be long

Run run run run
Run run run run
Run run run run
Run run run run

Whats that you said?—
Abide in Love.
Wheres that you went?—
To whither, moth and rust.
Whats that you heard?—
Someones old cough out lurking in the hall
Hows that you fell?—
I dont know.
Why dont you ask the sun.
How did you rise?—
The same as everyone
A spark of divine wisdom
Reaching from the clouds

note to self

You ever
Hear that call,
And its trumpets blaring,
Somebody out there,
theyre yelling,
And theyre screaming,
As some material illusion
Has burnt up before the their eyes,
And blinded their heart.
It is nothing over a star in sky.
Judge not,
But pity and mourn.
While they only look the wrong way now,
The garden is right there,
They will face the gate
And walk under the sun streaked sky
Laid before it.
And when you find yourself
Led astray in the same way,
Follow the birds
After the fall sweeps those leaves
To the first note heard
Singing over the face of the deep,
Your friend in the night,


O innocent lamb
How are you?
O-Only a cold wind..
Thank you innocent lamb
For your sacrifice,
I am still wearing the sweater you made
The one with the holes in it.
Know innocent lamb
That there is a place held for you,
Before the throne of God.
For when I was naked,
You clothed me,
and when I was hungry,
You gave me something to eat.


It feels like
Every time I try to sit down and write
I am attempting to exhume dead language
From a forgotten grave
(See what i mean)
I mean
have you read that shit above
I seriously pity the oldhead
Even in all his literary prowess
Nobody told his ass
Formal structure ran out the window
Several decades ago
Took all its shit with it
And is now sitting on a hillside somewhere
Painting landscapes
Enjoying it as it is before them
And Ive failed to understand that
Structure past is not found present
And that there is a new language
Born of a new writer
Every moment where Im from
Still, Ive left cherubim at the gate
Just incase
But seriously
Though the point is not necessarily to keep up
In writing, Ive fallen, and I cant get up
What a pity
Ill figure it out
For now though
In the spirit of some hearty self-deprecation
Heres how the piece would go
If TS Eliot read my shit
He would say something along the times of
"Boring, trite, writer fails to articulate in any sense the
Modern experience, lacks comprehension of the linguistic
Elements of the age and geography in which he resides
Could do with the employment of the modern emoji
Or even the unicode script of recent memory,
Writer would fare better if we shipped him express mail
Back to antiquity"
Like shit brother
With a resounding applause from our cultured aesthetes

Now that every word is yesterdays word
all great works were written tomorrow or the next day
So it often seems best to just keep walking with your head down
You wouldnt want to run into the meaning of something
Youve thought you knew
Only to find its been recast under the immense pressure
Of the sounds and scenes lingering in the air all around it
Especially on a cold lonely street
With rhythms kicked up
Purely for her own content
You slide though
up next to all these people in a line
One hacking cough, three suits
Good folks hustling tryna get them some loot
Seven foot homeless man with his ass out
In a hospital gown
Work boots so crusted up with dust
they must be artifacts of an archeological dig
One century from now in the city you live
Headline reads
Rare Timb boots discovered
Offering new insight into the metropolis
laid to waste and ruin beneath all that heat
Still all you hear
Is the melody of every days ancestor
That they sent by way of signs
And all you can think is
That they look like the lights youve never seen
Stretched over the sky in the north
The ones whose only purpose
Is to jog our memory
Remind us that
God Did.
Just keep walking brother
Step to and dont forget
When there has been little to say in the way of a white winter
Whatever you write owes a debt of gratitude to grey
Move as you may and
Just keep walking brother
You can wear the shoes with the busted soles
And you will see a crudely drawn penis on a sidewalk or a wall
Feel the half formed smile
On the face of the folks out cleaning our parks
Just for the sake of dawn
Remembering again and again
That there is no new thing under the sun

For T.S Eliot

Standing in Chinatown
Eating a Jamaican patty
in my Japanese clothes
Like a good Canadian boy😎


They say
The dog is mans best friend
But in the modern day
When i have nothing else to turn to
My two best friends
Will show the way
Thank you Peter Griffin
and Homer Simpson