Poetry in Fountain Pen


Between Your Heartbeats

You were born to battle.

A hand grenade’s entrenched

between your lungs, ticking

down, at war

with your own existence.

Yet when your head falls

against your lover’s chest,

you do not grieve to hear

the bomb.

No one ever suffered

who didn’t give a damn.

So when you’re entangled

in your lover’s limbs

and the weekday alarm

calls you to lay siege,

make peace —

make love —

between your heartbeats.

Your Mind, a Shark

Your mind is a shark, moving

for a living.

In the depths, layered currents flow;

but when you dive

below the waves of daily life,

you cease to hear your thoughts and believe

you have found


darkness and emptiness.

The pressure is too high; you want to rise

back to the surface, where words tell

you what you’re thinking:

dishes, bills, annoyances, neediness —

all those little quandaries.

But the deepest current is not

silent or still or barren.

It’s quicksilver at lightspeed, too fast

to hear, too refined for words.

Here, at maximum depth,

is you, your soul:

the thoughts you can only feel

in your gut, the thoughts you must enact


or else sink.




Poetry: You, a Soul

You, a soul, free-fall

at the speed of time, a comet

hewn of ancient rock, waiting

only to awaken, to feel.


The shattering

is never what you think.


It’s to be aware

of solar wind dancing

on your surface, tugging

at your edges —


the first sense

of sense itself —


and to surrender, to collide

with this immovable experience,

your first lover.


You birth life.

You become you:

a soul traveling at timespeed

with the wind in your hair.

Sometimes I Want a Job as a Metaphysics Imagineer

The Poet-Contractor


saw physicists kitted out with clockwork swords

and atomic muses, half-mad with an old velveteen dread

from childhood existential ventures

back when monsters were real. As grown-ups they were soldiers-


turned-philosophers, knapping their obsidian equations into

the only weapons that could pierce the beasts’

too-vivid eyes, so they might pluck them out and see

through æther into everything.


He sucked on recycled air like a cigarette, wired. Around

him, the world rested on levers and valves and electric

angels, in suspense before the first collision: the moment

he was paid to document for the unlike-minded

– but he hadn’t slept lately, he’d stayed up reading dry-erase

boards when everyone had gone, and now hallucination crept

into his overwrought ideas, supersaturated fields of

wild-grown dream-logic.


So it seemed to make sense when

he figured colliding particles were like a doubled mind

churning in a violent metaphysical reaction, and the test-run

results were like his kids leaping off the couch,


half-believing they could outwit gravity if they really tried.

He wanted to tell his colleagues, but he was a

self-admitted waste of resources,

having nothing to do with the flightpath of quarks


or scientific creativity.