Out-Of-Character (OOC)

In the game we used to play, everyone pretended
to be a character, felt their feelings and drove
their choices, and when we needed to communicate
not as pawns but as players, we coded the messages

It’s a bit like that, not knowing
exactly what you’re doing at a given moment,
waking up with mistakes you’ve made and
not remembering the past, but
dealing with the consequences and
trying to get your head on straight.
I wish I could code myself (OOC),
a brain in a jar, removed from the game,
apologetic for my choices but friendly
to my fellow players.

Keeping Warm.

The old hopes burn the slowest
with their greasy brown smoke,
smoke that smells like perfume and
reddens the eyes.

But old hopes run out. And new things
are fed to the flame, new passions,
sudden ideas, anything that can
be consumed will be consumed,
anything to stoke the furnace
in this lonely house.


the wondering if the axe could fall,
the hoping that the axe would fall,
the elation that the axe will fall,
the sense of dread as the axe is falling,
is all I see in
the thoughts of you
hanging above my

Man On A Mountain

The man on the mountain has filthy nails
And spits cherry seeds in a dirty pail
Like useless things, like broken hearts,
Like lovers lost, like careless darts.
The man on the mountain does not care
The flesh is sweet, the pits are bare.

return of a prodigal cheat

I am coming home with my palms upturned,
The knife missing from my boot,
Initiative wasted on disarmament.

We can throw the midnight oil into the street.

And I will do anything it takes.
Even if it means staying drunk, alone,
Squandering my natural advantage,

Anything it takes.

I am coming home in earnest.

these vital things

The books are written in dead languages,
and, if they so happened to revive,
the verse would be awful.
Many claim to understand,
few admit they cannot, and all
assume that someone, truly,
someone must know.
How can it be that something so primal is unknown?
How can the instincts of humanity
dissipate like an autumn storm?

Angels and Anemones

I do not believe in angels,
for I have not seen an angel, but
I do believe in sea anemones,
lurking in the coldest,
dampest darkness.
It is easy to believe in
something dumb and vicious,
easy to believe
that something exists only to eat and sting,
with no thoughts of trumpets,
and no hidden meaning.