other cities in the world seem to age with a sense of grace

but American cities grow into a state of forlornness.

a film of rust and mold plague the surfaces

of neighborhoods once booming in their adolescence,

like the raspy hungover stubble on a drunkard’s face.

smokestacks erected as proud monuments

for winning the west

now stand in sunbaked isolation, a mocking vulgarity,

epitaphs to a hope quickly ignored and forgotten.

graffiti tattoos the train cars and drainages,

flashes of color sprawled across a hardened skin,

providing the only real signs of life in this desolation,

but even they are bleached and faded now,

chipped and lost to the deep wrinkles of the city.

this is the premature aging of American cities

that makes us long for a prairie fire,

a quick end to life turned decrepit.

to feel lonely in another country is expected.

to feel lonely in a new town is understandable.

but loneliness in the place you grow and have grown

can be unbearable, unrelenting,

only truly known in cities that should have never existed,

in cities that no longer want you.

– jordan

Solitary Pilgrim

Honed for discrimination,
empowered and passionate.
The spoiled monarch roams,
the heart’s kingdom hungers.

Thirsting for distant waters,
calloused feet resent the earth.
Rivers stand still in grails,
beloved denatured by conquest.

Clinging to beauty found,
the heart weds and guards.
Plucked flowers in gold vases,
wilt behind palace walls.


News Review Haiku

“Dream Act Vote Fails in Senate”

Shot dead in Iraq,

But body tag read: Please Ship

Back To Mexico

“Obama to Meet With President Hu Jintao of China”

Communism wants

Ass tons of money, just like



“Consensus on Climate Change Not Reached”

Bury head in sand,

Tell self climate will not change,

Soon find head in mud

– jordan

Dark Kings

Where have the rains gone?
No time to dwell on such things,
Building sand castles.


Dark kings burn our faith
Communion held with black wine
Drilling holes, cup drains



sundance, #1

Broken, cracked lips
Blood stained cigarettes,
Wind so strong
It moves right through me,
No longer here
No longer solid,
This is how we return
To the ether of beginning,
The clouds move with the rhythm
I hear in my sleep,
The stars reside
Behind closed eyes,
We are hardened by the land
And thus become part of it,
We are broken down together
And together become one

sundance, #2

You can smell the moisture in the air
as the thunderstorm approaches,
The practiced indifference of the desert
is momentarily cracked,
All things become suddenly silent.

The Earth craves this respite
as much as I do,
And together we look to the sky
lost in our thoughts of what gifts might follow.

– jordan


They came in the early morning. They always did. Inhabitants would keep their distance, watching nervously as the strange figures, hooded with faces obscured, made their way silently through the streets. Mounted atop dark, breathless horses, each pulled a tremendous wagon piled high with objects never to be seen again.

The sight was a familiar one, but lately the Takers were becoming far more brazen. Like starving dogs, they came closer with each pass, gnawing away at the unspoken perimeter that had stood for generations. The Inhabitants knew the day was not long before their own meek possessions would be sought to stave the collapse of the few cities still scattered across the scorching deserts of North America.

The Takers paused amid the blistered ruins of the desolate suburb, sand drifting high through the endless expanse of skeletal houses, picked clean through centuries of systematic looting. Nothing of value remained. As I sat in the dirt before my tent, the Takers turned their gaze on me.


Watch Your Head

A little plaque instructed me,
to turn my gaze around.
But despite my greatest efforts,
my own head could not be found.

I tried not to be discouraged,
though my failure prompted fear:
If one cannot look upon themselves,
how can they know they’re here?