(G D C D G)


Time is a playboy

He won’t scratch your car, but he’ll break your heart 

And you’ll fall apart before the second date

(G D C D G)


Time is a bouncer

Wears diamond chains, got ice in his veins

He goes to operas but he stays awake

(C Em D G)


Waiting for the madness

Honey it’s a tragedy

That I spent it on you

(Am G D Em)

Oh, Time

Waiting by the altar

Roses from your mother

Cheating and spending on you

©SKETCHES BY MAKO: %^!*&*!^%

I’ve often dreamt of utopia

A pretty little pond and perfect petunias

A rose frozen over, trapped in a glass box

An aquarium of cells

Within cells, within cells Interlinked

Amoeba, the Zeitgeist

Phosphorous and fluorescents

A subtle scent that tastes like skin

We cry, “Death to the corporation!”

I’m dreaming of better days

In perfunctory nods, closed quarters

A locker that only takes coins

I don’t remember when it started

The voices

The empty gestures of hope

We weave in and out

Between traffic cones, metro rails

Like ants scattered for molehills

We make mountains from

Land mass and synthesis

Lakefill, landfill, the head of King Philips the Fourth

On a silver platter

Clementines, goat cheese

A basket of bread baked by Jackie Webber

At the local book club

She recommends “For Our Sons & Daughters”

But she hasn’t read a single page



For Athena,

Daughter of the Pearl,

Nectarines with a tinge of nepotism

Death by stasis

A lychee martini,

A wheel of Brie,

Cross stitched denim with a need to please

I remember being fourteen,

Middle parted hair,

Inexplicable growths

Up and down my arms

I remember Chester, and Molly

And these schoolyard games,

Where we measured

Who could stick their tongues the farthest

I remember Molly

And her clementine charm

Bracelets stamped with


Her father called her names,

On Saturdays and weekdays

Sunday’s remained

Reserved to the Lord

I remember Chester,

Splintered wrist, cabbage patch kids

Leather studded jacket

A smoldering look he reserved

Only for the girls

I remember his possessions

Me, included

For everything in the world, he owned

But in the end, he valued nothing

©SKETCHES BY MAKO: 12_zwölf_12


I think I’m a bit of a 

Hopeless Romantic

With this predisposition

And misconception 

Of the 

Causality of circumstances

All these faces

That have strolled through

My memory’s museum

And have stolen


But left footprints of

Their own

They are no different from

Reflections of skies upon puddles

Love is only a feeling 

It is not intrinsically related to

Souls or spirits

Quite honestly

All these characters

Lack what I need

From a person

But god

To just reminisce 

Is quite the melancholic exercise 

For there lingers hope

In future reconnection 

A fire lit once but abandoned

Can perhaps catch flame again


Parables from Youth Pastor Manson:

Of Concordian Grapes,
“Concordia”, he said
"I do concur"

"Who has done this to you?
The child who was once there?"
We’re left with only the potions

“Our pasture, our problem”
He said, holding my hand
In rosary beads

Rosy cheeks, I spring up
Under weeping willows
And acquiescent glades

“A spiritual bath is an awakening”
I mix my vodka with pomegranate

Drink to our Father,
It’s what we do weekends
In search for something else

To Mother Mary,
A dozen cranberries scrawled
In flesh and tombstone

May we rest forever