I left church one Sunday and never went back, But I used up all my belongingness on communion wafers. No one told me the rest of the world already bought in to beautiful loneliness, 6 billion characters in search of a play, A balazo balance of angels dancing to jazz on the heads of firing pins, Waging wars for cooking oil and tea leaves, Eating 9/11 freedom fries while goin’ to half-closed theme parks in Indiana,

A poet — so called — once wrote the world’s shortest poem, “I” What an ego. The critics lauded it that anyone could read themselves into the line. I’m here to tell you we already were. No need to write it down and remind us. I met the devil at the crossroads. Ain’t…

The one who brings the smoke into his mouth and immediately blows the smoke out The one who briefly inhales The one who breathes deep holding the cancer in his lungs hoping for a final punctuation to appear at the end of his poem. Maybe like a resigned lover swallowing semen. Nowhere else to go, hoping for the erogenous flame of escape. His stomach is unsettled by this thing called life. no lover can carry the burden of this addiction, trying to feel alive. The bitter toke of this aphrodisiac nicotine leaves a man to ponder what he’s lost, and he’s lost too much and he cannot give enough back to the paper.

Installment #11 The nameless man rides on ___________________________ On the other side of Estes Park, I was back in the woodland country. Lodges for wealthy vacationers from worlds I’d never see rested partially hidden among the trees. Traffic was steady but quick. My heart soared being in that part of…

Nicotine headrushes spin my mind like a top across a table teetering on the edge, the oracles of Jehovah below on the kitchen floor. Add the whiskey jet fuel and I shudder like a Cape Canaveral rocket about to meet the Buddha. These are the spiritual rituals of the aging millennial trying to find meaning in the bull market chaos. Left behind. Left behind. Left to pick up his pieces and all the rest.

Tapped out, cashed out, nonrefundable imitations of you line the walls of the latest hits halls of my mind. I’m sure the girl who liked to longboard hadn’t a thing to do with you. Nor the one I asked to marry me who pretended to like your music. …

Installment #10 The following is the tenth of many installments concerning the not-so-tragic death of a ridiculous man named Patrick. Part II — Earth Day 5 In the early morning hours, I found my sleeping bag had dried enough to be used. Even so, the mountain night still wasn’t all that warm. I woke…

Installment #9 The following is the ninth of many installments concerning the not-so-tragic death of a ridiculous man named Patrick. — Back at the campsite, I found that my sleeping bag and blanket — which I had left in my hammock — were rain soaked. Damn. It was still sprinkling…

The Most Beautiful Thing about Church — Hebrews 10:25 “And they will be turned into oaks of righteousness,” the priest said, but John only wondered about how stained glass got made. The eastern sunlight pressed rays past the tree branches outside and through the red and yellow mosaic in the…