In The Theatre

In this dark crowd,

Laughter, tears, all shared, all

Alone. No community more unknown,

No lovers match that silver face.

Feel the dulcet throb of speakers,

See the pores on the actor’s nose;

The laughter, the gun, the music sting,

The knife, held underhand, the terrible eye,

The gumshoe in the rain,

The moustache twitch during each new lie,

To spend a day, alive in a lonely,




the sand on the shore is red and gleaming,

My heart, in parts, lays still and steaming

With the beating surf erasing the trail

And each new step, a driven nail,

By expert hands sunk in the wood

That brought evil knowledge to the good.

Leave me where I lie, murdered under the stars,

Leave me lying, let me lie.

in the night

Spread your wings to the night,

Feel the stars on your back,

The wind whistling through your ears.

I won’t ask you to retutn,

You must have left for a good reason,

A need to be wild and free,

I just wish I could be there,

My feet off the ground,

Two more wings in the night.


They say that bats are blind,
I don’t think it’s true, but
common phrases have more buying power than truth,
so bats are blind.
I think we’re blind, as a bat could be,
never quite knowing where we are except
for the echoes of our voices, catching the sharp edges,
echoing back to us through gestures, friendly
faces, the flit of houseflies and
delicious moths, the needs we’ve satisfied,
the want, the greed, the flitting fancies,
the empty spaces between our now and our future,
filled with the terrible howls of owls,
and the hollows of our past, distant,
seen dimly, as bats would see,
if bats were blind,
as they say.

Waste of Money

“It’s a waste of money”, he spits,
“Do you really need that coffee?”

Well. That’s a good question. Do I really need this coffee?
Do I really need to eat? Do I need to work,
or play, or know the names of rare birds? Do I need to hear a
song, and do I need to write these lines?
Do you need to own a boat? Do we need a boss, and does he
need a boss, and does that boss need workers? Why would
the workers need their jobs? What
does it mean to need? What does it mean to want?
Are we ready to learn
that we are anything more than overgrown carnivorous plants,
in need of anything more than meal, and water, and
a windowsill to rest on?

Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing

You can tell that they were born for this,
and they are accumulating evidence against you,
that they are watching how you
ply your secondhand expertise.

You can tell they’re looking at you like
you’ve stolen this life from a thrift shop;
how you aren’t standard issue, how
your past lingers like cheap cologne.

We are just factory rejects from the major
luxury lines; almost good enough if
the seams are tucked away, and we
can’t wash the soil off our hands,
and we can’t convince ourselves,
but still, we stay.