I failed to see
the writing on the wall
and inwardly knew
that a lifetime with you
was no longer a true option at all

I failed to be
your oak standing tall –
my innards and roots,
the lies and the truth,
were no stronger at the rise then the fall

I failed to sing
the mockingbird’s song –
off-key, not attuned
and inopportune
there is no chance of you hearing my call

I failed at being
the man all along
but deep down you knew
not a moment too soon
there was no chance of you hearing it all

Father’s Daughter

The sword and the scale
The shadow is there
The ground and the water
The father’s daughter

The death and the birth
The name and the words
We trade and we barter
The father’s daughter

The ring and the space
The look on your face
Farther and farther
The father’s daughter

Your love and your voice
Your heart and your choice
Harder and harder
Your father’s daughter

Pretty Girl

Hey pretty girl in the window there
Shining bright behind the stares
Of a hundred thousand empty glares.

Hey pretty girl in the neon light,
Murder crows and Jesus Christ;
Waiting for my daily rite.

Hey pretty girl, you’re a mystery;
I itch for every inch I’ve seen,
Veiled behind an electric screen.

Hey pretty girl in the window there
Your tangled webs and hidden snares
What’s yours is mine and mine is theirs.


What you can never be prepared to know about divorce is how it changes your view of parking lots. You pause and take a deep breath. Scanning the rows as you pass them by, your eyes intently watching for that familiar vehicle. It makes my mouth dry. What if they are in there? What if they are getting groceries too? What if they are with someone that is not you?

I walked the aisles like a zombie. The bags underneath my sockets were pulling my weary eyes down. My eyes were red and raw and tired. It was the first time I went grocery shopping on my own. I broke down in the frozen food section. Who knew bagged broccoli and shredded cheese could bring a man to tears?

If focusing on the big picture – the “this all adds up logically” part of what is going on – then it seems as though I am alright. On a massive scale, I am finding peace and forgiveness and hope and all the other things one needs to move on. It is the small things that still break me. Like for example, sometimes before I go to sleep, if I lay really still, it feels like I am still in our bed. Logically I know that cannot be true, we haven’t occupied our bed together for some time now. But underneath logic, in some small place, I think how I can shift my weight and roll over and reach for you. That I can feel the softness of your shirt or the warmth of your skin. I feel like I am collecting these small things the same way that we collect grocery bags shoved into the corner of a pantry.


You are my muse
I will misuse you
You are misconstrued

You are my blues
I will refuse you
In likelihood
Likely to subdue

You are my noose
I will unloose you
The neighborhood
No longer soothes you

You are my news
I will reuse you
Like childhood
You’re an interlude

Come Home

So will you be
back before morning comes?

I’ll go to sleep
when the darkness is gone.

I saw you leave
after the setting sun.

I want to dream
but the nightmare’s begun.

Will you come home?
You never came home.

You’re haunting me
quite the maternal one.

You will not be
like our daughters and sons.

I want to breath
bring back air to my lungs.

They’re drowning me
their names are stuck on my tongue.

Will they be known?
They never were though.


“From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.” – Franz Kafka

The wooden box was made to look like an antique book. The dust jacket was designed like an ancient map. The lid was tied by cotton twine. Inside the cover there was a message left many years ago. Back when love seemed like forever. It’s false pages were misleading from the outside just as the message was misleading within. Inside the box were poetic words and ghost stories.

The tree was always special. He found it by accident. Its twisted roots were pulled half from the earth. It rested on its side like a sleeping giant taking shallow breaths as it buried its branches into the ground. He took you to the tree, his special place. His refuge. His calm. The tree was him and he was the tree. He showed you the tree. He watched you climb its branches and rest under its limbs.