The Silence of Bond Street, Bend, Oregon
I Woke Up Walking The sky was torn wide—half-dream, half-something starving.Stars hung like shattered teeth in the black. Bond Street was empty, but not quiet.Cities don’t go quiet.Even when the...
Every Young or Old Man’s Dream
“Time is but a face on the water.”
I first read those words in a book long ago, but I wish today was the first time.
There’s something haunting about understanding time—how it slips through our fingers like rain, how it reflects who we were, who we are, and who we might have been.
On the battlefield of memory, where echoes of war linger longer than the warriors themselves, I stand—hands stained, fate sealed, laughter carried by the wind. The world is a cruel joke, a story written in blood and steel, a song sung by those left behind. And yet, through it all, I dream.
Because some things are worth dreaming for.
The Final Stretch: Nearing the End of Nursing School
Excitement. Relief. A strange, quiet kind of panic. It all collides in my chest as I count down the days.
Of Fires and Anarchy: Last Nights Winds Blowing Ash
Here’s some poetry dedicated to the bandana-clad saints of anarchy. I carved my name into the spine of Portland,let the letters bleed into the pavement,let the streetlights flicker like they...
The Silly Mockery of Ol’ William S.
This is one of my all time favorite poems that I have written. When I was a young man, I was obsessed with William Shakespeare. Seriously. This is sort of...