17 May 2012

I am a wolf

I am a wolf.
I am a wild thing.
The deepest throes of the wreckage rebuke my wildness
And wish it ill.
But I will growl and bay.
I will bare my fangs.
I will attack to kill,
And we will survive because of it.
Snow glows on the full mooned peaks
And water rushes, hushed and hurried.
I smell blood in the frost
And move like shadow.
Winged and sweet, the blood baits my urges
And I crest a hilltop thicket.
It's there, splayed,
Hoping against hope,
And I bound, bound to the injured thing.
Bound to the broken thing.
Bound to the delicate thing that hopes against hope
And looks at my eyes, seeing light beyond light.
The wild thing lopes and huffs,
Waiting for fresh night and fresh wildness.

10 October 2011

A fragment of a larger thing, the rest of which is lost...

I found this scrap of paper in a box long lost, then found. Curiously curious, this.

Frost has bitten the tulips
And breath swirls like smoke.
The leaves no longer sing in the morning
And water hardens.

The air is clean and low
And nests and stores are stocked.
The dull, soothing warmth of lamplight
Warms my heart's chill.

Bring two pennies to the deep,
One for one, and one for luck.
Cast each in and bow your head
Then, exhale.

Snow rolls into the valley.
Be sure to lock your door
for prowlers leave pacing footprints

02 June 2011

First and Last

The stones are mossy here, and the ground is soft.
The air is thick and cool, and it fills up the corners.
Fish with skin like the end times pucker near the surface,
Glaring and staring, puckering and gaping,
Night moves tremulous across the spaces between,
A marauder in the deep of things.
So now it is dark
So dark
Too dark to see
But skin perceives while others cannot,
The space between, the deep between.
The world will end, and the world will end
And we will see it, the spire of light on the horizon.
The knife that cleaves the world in two.
Ashen want, a hole, tearing and thrashing.
And we will be lost, until time dies, until words die,
Until nothing that is nothing dies.
Until only his voice remains, scuttling across the surface of the deep.
Whispering whispers in a tongue unlike.
But not tonight, my darling. Not tonight.
We can become all, nothing, the deep itself.
We can grow a trillion miles,
And touch the end of the galaxy.
So let’s hold close and breathe each other’s breath,
Until the spire of morning cleaves the night in two.

26 September 2010


In moonless waters a new shadow forms,
Smoldering blackness,
Festering, ashen, nightmare blackness
That whispers to the spaces between.
The crow’s nest creaks, and I strain my stare,
Salt in the cracks of my knuckles and ice on my brow.
But It waits below, so I steel myself
And wait.
The knife I made from an elephant tusk
Feels warm against my palm,
The blade still rose from the fisherman’s hide
That looked like leather but cut like bread.
Here I am, at the end of things, straining my eyes,
Peering the pitchtar deep.
The word, His word, does not linger here
But scuttles atop the crests.
Its heart is my heart, Its rumbling carnage
Is mine, and Its bloodlust slinks through the ether,
Chanting my name until it pools in great pools
Amongst craven phosphorescence.
Haven midst the depth, where God won’t go,
But I can cling to the mast until the last ember of everything
And then It will come for me, and I for It,
And we will see what’s what.

26 July 2010

Coastal Vantage Point

The trees of Neverland topple
And my s.o.s. bottle floats tragically toward the rocks.
Hook’s hook has cut my throat
And turned my voice to gurgles.
But Michael and John stand rigid by my side,
And John murmurs Wendy’s name,
So poisonous and acidic the ghost cleaves to things,
Dimming the horizon like ash.
The bandage she made from the hem of her dress
Is blackened with my offal,
But I can see without seeing the bluest blue
And I hold tight to John’s hand.
So long, Neverland, so long trees,
So long cerulean cove and lagoon.
My nest was my world, now fanned like cinders
Against the razorish breath of the crocodile.
I’ll come back here to face him and chop him in two
One day when I’m grown up,
And in its hide I’ll stuff myself,
To emerge unfurled and new
And fly away, brilliant as the sun.

08 June 2010

Beautiful Folly

It feels like a rock and roll kind of night,
A pabst and schnapps kind of bad decision,
A scorched mouth and hoarse throat yowl night,
When judgment and consequence melt like butter
On Georgia ashphalt.
A night to test our mettle against the wrought iron,
To flex against the setting sun and bully it
Until it taps out.
Our hearts claw at our ribs to be freed,
And blood boils out of our veins, overflowing and acidic.
Too obvious? Perhaps,
But when the crisp and neon glow of our future
Remains folded like butterfly wings,
We cannot help but pour gasoline on the whole works
And strike a match.
Our eyes snap photos that our memories will never receive,
Of a time when we did it just to watch the whole thing burn.

16 May 2010


Watching a solar eclipse once in grammar school,
Holding a pinholed paper over my shoulder
To catch to the celestial phenomenon,
I wondered why
I couldn’t watch it with my eyes.
I knew the mechanics of vision and how,
If I looked directly at the sun for too long a time,
I’d go blind.
Other grown ups wore welding glasses,
Or held up layers of tinted glass crafted from the shop.
But I just held these two pieces of paper and witnessed,
By reflective second-hand,
The eclipsing of a heavenly body.
A magnificent event, a history,
But I, like the telegraph operator who had to transmit
Robert Ford’s news,
Could only passively relay the information.
Amorphous clouds drift to me
And me to them, cloudlike and transient,
Shapeless and shapeless
Like treasures of visionless horizons.
Is this how it is?
Pinholed and deflating,
Like everything else?