Strawberry Doom

Wake up, man. It’s tomorrow.

I’m watching incense smoke linger in the sunlight from the windows, just hanging out laying thick like a familiar feeling. It smells like woody strawberries and peace. And my apartment is gold in the eyes of a miner. And a train wreck strain is a great additive to the pleasure the pleasuring and the pleasured right beside the train station where phenomenal orgasms prance across the tracks of time pockets if you just relax. Hearing the quickened breath like a horn that blows again and again coming like trains on a restless summer night. Listening to stoner doom metal and the irony lies in the grass of it being one of the most hopeful noises under the sun of it being the opposite of doom and sounding like divine design. The sound that jumps the tracks. The sound that takes a long ride to somewhere they don’t know and it’s over as quick as it came and they’re gone. Then somehow it comes back around on time schedules and the patterns of our days and we see it and we know it and we are it. It’s all of it it’s everything. And it spirals out again hopping freight to fright to freight to love to freight again moment to moment never ending because stars keep being born and giving way to black holes and we don’t know where any of it goes except for halting here right now for that one second to climb on board.



It was foggy in a hollow this morning.

And we all know fog is a thick cloud of tiny water droplets suspended in the atmosphere at or near the earth’s surface that obscures or restricts visibility.

But it’s also something that obscures and confuses a situation or someone’s thought processes.

And I don’t know what this means for me or you or us or them.

But above the fog hung the crescent moon, low and south east. And guiding. And beckoning.

And the Stairway to Heaven has never been denied in my car. And so many times has it come out of my smartphone and I’m stoned and I’m dancing to Jimmy Page’s guitar solo in a steamy shower.

And I left a warm bed on a cold morning because I had to do my homework, but also because I had a vision for a poem that I had to write– because words are my medium. It must have come to me in my vino-induced sleep. I woke up dizzy and tucked under a different blanket.

And I can’t paint or draw.

I was told I was the next chapter, but the pages keep quickly turning.

And our time here keeps flying. And you know sometimes words have two meanings, and all of our thoughts are misleading. And Robert Plant looks like him. Not the other way around. And that’s what is different now. From everything before. Perception and feeling.

And beneath laundry detergent and construction; love, to me, smells like sage and smudge and gasoline, skin, and the musk of man and earth.

Pheromones alone could make this life worth living.

I wonder about everything.

And I’m sorry I drink so much wine. And I’m sorry I think about sex and love and life all the time. I am.

He wished me clairvoyance. One of the cutest things I’ve ever seen in the dark.

And I can only hope and wait and be and do. And love fiercely with a mindful sensuality that I’ve only seen in one person.


And that crescent moon on a dresser in a foggy morning hollow.

Poem I wrote on a lonely sunday afternoon

I’m good without a god;
and I’m human enough
to be treated as such,
though I’ve probably loved
a little too much.
And touch is equal to craving
and life is equal to saving
and the climate is ever changing;
because of the struggle,
we suffer enough.
After Forrest and Jenny walked through D.C.
you hated the feeling of watching her leave
again, but
this reflection, is you and me, and us and them.
And Jimi Hendrix hands move soft like silk
on freshly shaven skin,
soft within
and activism springs forward
from man and his kind
from women, equally divine.
But businessmen still drink my wine,
and ignorance destroys my Earth;
and intellectually speaking,
I don’t know what to do
when I feel lonely like this
on a sunday afternoon.