I sit beside you, strangerAnd waitA once-filled mindMy black sunflower seedsNow half sown Introductions are necessary I’m terrible with namesWe met before, you sayThe hillside, sanctuary Classroom, dinner tableCreek—To name a few Muted voicesScreen-strained lonelinessAnxiety and doubtWindows shutteredI drain the glass and wipeWater droplets from my mouth I don’t answer you, strangerAnd…

Maybe I should consult the devil. Maybe I should embrace world-revvingnightshade sonnets until clovenharmonies etch fountain pen rhythmsup and down my spine. Maybe I should appreciate unaccomplished blank space;Ride the empty page instead of enslaving meter and phrase.Maybe I should idle-out, back to the ground and exhaust the weight of symbols…

for every choice, there is a universe where you made a different choice.  I’m driving alone, and the sun is in my eyes, And it’s so loud inside my headSo loud, I just want quiet I just want to run out of this car until I hear nothingBut the harsh sound of…

‘…one of the most secret princes of the world …capable of bitter hatred.’ – Sir Henry Wotton on James VI History remembers your fondness for unwatered wine, androgynous men; your wit, dry as stable straw. Somehow soft, despite an arrowhead intellect and a tendency to fling insults pulled from the dirt.But here in one…

Crumpled on the floor againlike a sad verse struck through,blacked out, never to be read aloudI crawl into bed, legs heavy from carrying the weight of worries.I’ve lost track of time again—bury my head in a pillow, hiding in its soft folds, stroking my own cheek, breathing into pain hard and…

“I think you take me to be a witch myself.”– James VI & I, Daemonologie I. His birth chased death from his mother’s rooms, delivered from Mary’s womb as summer turned  its first corner outside the little window, warmth of morning spinning up steep wynds and closes. Here is the newborn prince, his face tilted…