September, 5:38 PM

The warm Autumn moon wanes
behind the cloths of clouds draping the setting sun
A symphonic cackling of leaves pirouette beneath the mandalic wheels of the
bicyclist’s few last voyages
Paler tones develop—clod in cotton coats breaking contact
Of sun weathered skin and oak smoke infused winds
The fresh carved jack-o’-lantern’s
flame flickering eyes ignite the imagination of night
Under the lone crescent eye of an awakening kitten slowly sauntering towards the horizon

August, 7:45 PM

Pink cotton candy skies elope with sunset
Familial picnic pow wow on concrete slabs—
Warm tipsy kisses against sediment
Drunk on sunshine
Falling in love like liquid
Feral animals caravan through cotton plants
Dogwood bud blossoms carried through willows that weep
Architects of play wander through school yards pre season
Monarchs waver through western winds; cooling
Playground’s Day ground eclipsed by shadowed heads falling to rest


Encore. After finishing my first collection, and enjoying the process so much, I immediately decided to embark on my second. The entire construction of Visions took only a few days. As proud of it as I was, I still felt like I hadn’t really said anything of substance. I jokingly told my girlfriend I was just going to start on my second collection. She, straight faced, said “Well, why don’t you?” And so Chernobyl was born. That day I saw someone retweet an account by the name of @chernobylstatus. Trump had just made some outlandish statements regarding climate change several hours later. The pieces began to fall in place. Rather than musing on about mental health and relationships, I felt I had something prevalent to say about the very strange times we have found ourselves born into. Something for all of us. The poems within this collection are some of my most experimental. If I had to classify it it would be under the genre of Found Poetry, Historical Poetry, and Industrial Poetry. The further into it I got, the more it began to come alive. As I wrote it I could feel the cadence itself breathing. The lines completed themselves. As exhausting as it was, as many breaks as I had to take due to the overwhelmingly grotesque discoveries I came across in my research, I finally closed it with Eco Death. I present to you, Chernobyl. Pick up a copy. You just might learn something.

Visions of Introversion 

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” – Rainer Maria Rilke

After years of talking about publishing this collection, several chopping blocks bloodied with ink, and three working titles, my debut collection is available for sale in paperback and on Kindle. Thank you to everyone on here who has supported my work thus far. Though many of these poems are outdated, and can be found on my previous blog, they are now finally together in the order I always intended. I present to you, Visions of Introversion.


I may not have autism I may be bipolar

I may stay far, far away from proper medication 

I may never seek out true council 

I may continue to underplay myself for the sake of familiarity

I may continue to deny my true disease

I may live in doubt for my own personal eternity 

I may never release this piece

I may never resurrect the original draft 

I may self prescribe myself temporary solution

I may never find true solace in prerecorded Stevie 

I may have a fifth still tucked away in the pantry 

I may wither under my own uncertainties

I may die self relied in my thirties 

I may retire desperately 

I may fall to madness within the company of uncertain nursery 

I may deceive myself for all of eternity 

But one thing lies beyond uncertainty 

I love you unconditionally 


Beneath moonlight, before illuminated LCD screens appear fallen letters of erasure. How is Rupi’s muse resting tonight? 9k in accumulative sales. Here rest the nonsensical lineage of King Aspergian. Here hibernates the sustainable living of the written word. Here lies the written word of Rimbaud’s visions of prosody. Byron’s peacock wonders through my mind amongst streets scattered in rotting cartilage. Take your form and shove it up your ass. I dance in the sacrilege of my own poetic nonsense.  


One weeks time past and the phantom of recollection has returned in the late of night. My palms hold onto the lacking of the present haunting surrounding our distant locality. 


The dimming city lights fade as the eyelids coalesce in beds wrapped in sheets so far from the comfort I feel left up alone. Health of the hearth flickers as once warm coals cool in springtime air. Fickle cells turn carcinomatic within the chest which once held me so close. I shuffle through improbabilities under the guise of uncertainty, my mind awry. Who will take care of me when she’s gone? How can I implement the inherent sense of nurture upon the responsibility of another—by nature? My questions go unanswered as I don’t dare speak them to the patient. Aura aloft in the Vatican as I howl prayers of rejuvenation towards seemingly empty heavens.


I wonder. These days I type on an iPad I stole from the local college some years back. My fingers have trouble reaching each and every letter. My phone now feels tiny in my hand by comparison. In the same way I conceive myself in your mind now that you’ve returned. We lie in these beds of ruins and I toss and turn under the fever. Where have I gone? I can’t stand the confrontation of reflection anymore. I worry that there’s horror around every corner. You do what you want to, but not what you want to. 
Sent from my iPad