When the tears you cry are dry And you’re surrounded by wolves No one hears you An emptiness prevails And your hollow cavity expands Stagnant air settles Hope resides in heart’s mind But the boy’s loneliness cripples Beyond a want to repair You grow into your role As the unhealable wound Each brick made of […]
I have a file on my computer of 200 unfinished/unpublished poems. Not that the locations of my mostly self-published works are of great notoriety, but I’ll take what I can get – even if self-created. I mean, I am (quite literally some-times) a starving artists. But that’s not true, and who gives a shit anyway […]
Here is a link to my first book, Exploration After Death: A Painting Check it out on Amazon
When your will is reduced To a limp palm frond And your motivation Lies lifeless In a pool Of its own blood – Lacerated wrists, Tire eyed relief, Broken face and Punctured eardrums – It may be time To concede: You can no longer outwit Your cerebral deficiencies Or Stave off your last goodbye […]
(The following poem was written in my brother’s basement while I was applying to graduate schools. I am not sure if I submitted this piece with my applications, but if I did, it is because it is a Shakespearean Sonnet (a style of poem popularized by Billy Shakespeare). Sixteen years ago this day, I embarked […]
I’m a broken crowbar, an out of work scarecrow. Most of what I am is nothing anyone who needs to know. Like stagnant water as it dissipates fumes: Like a child feeling neglected Because he’s the one not abused. Improbable: like fire underwater; Impractical: like ice on snow; Like a politicians’ lies: must grow to […]
A vacancy occupies this cavernous cavity: where heart, lungs, and stomach, as well as other functioning organs, would typically be; but what exists is – this space – an empty location. And in your head placate voice: a voice you’ve assigned a name. This name plants interferences in an attempt to protect your delicate sensibilities. […]
(excerpt from Stratus Portal: a book by Matthew Bailey and Ryan Jerome Stout) The path reveals itself, almost mystically – a slight tear in the space/time fabric, an interdimensional hangnail rift exposing the beginnings of whatever lies behind a canvas covering a nonexistent moment’s prior dimension. Where the ornate wrought iron fence meets the concrete […]
THE GHOST WHO SELLS MEMORIES 