The Reds Of Home

The flashing red, the pulsing red,
the ebb and flow of –
the bursts of – telephone thrown at a closing door, the-
why are you like this? The –
Never apologize, don’t ever apologize,
it’s weak, you’ll be –
the splash of –
what did you get on my carpet? I brought you
in to this fucking world and-
the angry mouth of a cigarette, the –
how did you get that bruise?
-the curl of smoke on flesh,
the hiss and heat of the kiss, and –
why are you like this?
why are you-
the hands creeping steadily-
why don’t you want to-
why can’t you just-


The tractor hum and harrow whine
ruffles the cattle and starts the swine
I look askance at the rumbling trees
and through them see, a glimpse of me
and you on a bed azure lit
by the glow of a forgotten 80’s flick,
with a plot that we both eagerly miss
while entangled in each soft new kiss.

It seems longer than a lifetime now,
So distant from tractor, pig and cow,
and clods broken like a vow
underneath the harrow plow.

my heart is not a mortar shell

My heart is not a mortar shell,
for it is much too small, more
kin to a jangling handful of
twenty-two cartridges,
only good for small game,
unarmored targets.
There is no whale to be killed
by such a heart,
there is no
castle walls weak enough to smite.
It is a heart destined only
to destroy intimately.

Werewolves at Midnight

Foam burbling on our teeth,
curses lingering on the earth,
we wag our tails and preen
we see and are unseen.
Oh, find me the next kill!
Feast on flesh,
fresh with thrill.
Flush away the pills,
Stay awake all night,
Keep the fangs, keep the –
Oh whatever god will listen –
Keep us in your graces,
keep us in your graces,
Until we awake,
human in the light of day.

Hollow Days

These are the hollow days
the empty crusts of life
the years of pills and bare white walls,
doctors in clean coats,
half-drunk bottles and
women with shocked eyes.
These are the fallow days
the days of morose yearning,
aimless hungerings in low places;
thoughts like lead,
limbs like chains
and nights we grasp just how much
we’ve lost.
These are the lonely days,
yet somehow we wish they were lonelier;
surrounded only by trees and
dreadful thoughts,
These are the days we can wear like scars,
The days we will be reminded of,
and look away from,
the days we will not warn our children about.
These are the hollow days.

Rhythms and Echoes

There is nothing new under the sun,
only new suns to see things by.
We will trace our scars by candlelight,
and rejoice in our survival;
we will trace our scars in rainstorms
and bemoan our breaking fates.
I do not recognize myself in some light,
I do not recognize some light in myself,
We will devour every atom of dust,
snatch them from their Brownian paths,
and chase every maniac dream that
leads to those alien suns.


One hundred and thirty thousand dollars for

A filthy rag worn in garages,

On stages,

Too precious to wash, too

Ragged to wear.

One hundred thirty seven thousand dollars for

the clothes of a man who

Got what he wanted,

Who wanted to die.

In The River

Looking to the river, melting with the rain,
dreaming of the seaside where all waters meet again,
trying to congeal, hoping to be solid,
but my runny-skinned body can’t
stay discrete for long.

Looking to the river, thinking of the molecules,
Do they really touch? Do they simply jostle?
Do they have their favorite friends or
do they simply flow?
Do the tiny components ever
wonder where they must go?


I cannot survive another winter, here.
In Spring, I plant the hard-shelled seeds
and watch the fingers erupt from the earth;
In Summer, I pluck the flowers, the fruit,
the fragrant things,
the offered vittles,
and in Autumn,
(that most loathsome of seasons),
I watch the vines curl, the leaves
prune and blacken, I
see the fruit molder,
fluffy mildews, crown-rot,
the vibrant greens drain to brown,
to gray,
Drooping at every frost
like sickly children.
I think,
I cannot survive another Winter, here,
and long to see the Spring.

Slipping In To Some Kind Of Skin

I am young, I am bored,
black locusts are in bloom,
the sun is high, my peers are laughing,
I am locked, alone, in my room,
the last scion of a crumbled empire.
I am a wanderer in my mind,
I am a philosopher in my own way –
seeking answers impossible to find.
Most things I do anymore
are error-prone repetitions,
reading the same books as before,
dreaming in incorrect positions.
I am not the first in this place,
I will not be the last,
desperate to escape,
too numb to leave,
clinging to my books,
and to the past.