I don’t even know what I’m hoping for

slipping through my fingers

shells and bones in a graveyard paradise

I’ve never known how long

to hold on


but we swam with the horses

and you told me I was funny

I stared at you

and never looked away


who will pull me out

I’m sinking

going down so quietly

I won’t wake a soul


a hand will reach out

it won’t be yours or mine

then you’ll let go of the doorknob,

I’ll take off the shirt


and we’ll be on top of different mountains

with a river of a thousand stories running inbetween us



when I die, I’d sooner go to middle earth

“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.

Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?

We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth.”

-George RR Martin (fellow infp)

bike poetry

a little red house

next to a willow tree

with no one home

who will greet me


But still I walk the path

to the door

a walk I’ve done

a million times before


among the dandelions

and the reeds of grass

and the longing vines

lies broken glass


farewell to a future

you said you could see

and goodbye to the little red house

next to the willow tree

brooklyn, 2016