There are signs that point left. Signs that point right. And then there are signs that point "Up"... Without explanation, context, or the courtesy of being metaphorical.

"There’s a bench with the arm broken off. The paint flakes like pages left in the sun. A pigeon nests underneath it like permanence could be proximity. And someone stands nearby: still fading, still here. Almost sitting. Almost gone"

He has everything. Still, he wants. A poetic autopsy of power and the man it unravels.

The aliens came for insight. They left clinically depressed. A darkly funny monologue on observation, spectacle, and socks with Crocs.

Twelve chickens. One plate. And the haunting begins. A surprisingly spiritual dive into a late-night chicken binge.

“My labor tree has yet to flower, but grows taller, likes to mock me.” A poem about patient hope and tending without proof.

What secrets lie beneath the reef’s shimmering surface? Dive into a poetic exploration of underwater politics, hidden alliances, and silent dramas .

"If the world bruises you blue, I’ll still be here. Tea warm. Light low. Quiet enough to hear you."

I sip the hour. I taste the air. Not every day glows, but most days hum. This is a piece about those days.

I don’t reach for the past, but it finds me. Like an unsent note in a jacket pocket, still folded. Still warm.