Night In

the sounds and smells of summer rain
and darkness, softer now than normal,
as you turn, mechanically, pivotally, to each fresh page
and discover that wonders are always ahead.
Oh, to always remember,
the static edges of slumbering,
Of soaking in this summer night .


The crooked river will catch aflame
Chaos and order will be selfsame
Manmade stars will crowd the skies
Machines will  peer from fresh new eyes
And many will come, and more will die,
their corpses piled far too high,
And the empire will rot at the foundation
and splinter into warring nation
and four horsemen will come this way
And Rome will burn in but a day.

three types

“Are you a where, a what, or a who?
A person happy so long as he’s where he wants to be-
if he’s doing what he wants to do-
or is with the people he wants to be with?”

I am a perhaps person,
a person who, perhaps,
has not found where he wants to be;
does not know what he does;
and is not sure he wants to be with anyone.

Scheherazade in Truth

What fine prize-
what a fine prize-
to marry the man who wanted you dead,
what a life-
what a fine life-
a marriage bed of stacked corpses,
fair and fated and
all could have been stopped,
if a thousand and one others,
or a thousand and more families
had the strength to wield a penknife or
poison needle,
had the insight to see
the sultan’s madness,
and were steely enough to
end it.

dreams and furrows

dreams are fertile furrows and
no matter how precious the land is –
without the diligence of tough hearts and
keen eyes,
nightmares will erupt,
all thorns and tangled tendrils,
choking the earth and
drawing blood from the tender.


A man may walk, a man may run,
or meander, wasted, blind by fun;
but all paths have one destination,
all trains crawl to the same station,
And haste brings us swiftly to ruin.

Tend The Flame

Is there any purer hunger?
This clean destroyer, this
holy ravager;
what else is bold,
what else is brave,
what else slides the darkness around its tongues and
eats even the night?
Is there any clearer magic
than combustion, and music, and
the laying of logs in pyres and altars,
in celestial sigils and teepees, all
intended to summon forth this
destroying angel,
this hungering light.

Trauma Bonding

We go to bury the wounds and
are buried with them, so
when someone comes along with
a shiny new shovel and
offers to lend a hand,
what else can we do but
work the mud and worms through our teeth
in a mad, desperate rush to thank them?
What else can we do when
the light is shut out,
the world closes in,
and the wounds throb anew?

King In His Coffin

The King is in his coffin,
living in state,
And in his coffin, with his crown,
the King will wait.
The King is in his coffin,
issuing dark demands,
and from his coffin, by his whim,
his people bleed their lands.
The King is in his coffin,
and in his coffin, lies,
The king is in his coffin,
and waiting, still, he dies.


The splinter will work its way
through your veins, so they say,
so they say, will swim and crawl
until it pierces your heart’s wall
and spreads a vile poison there or,
to hear the schoolyard’s whispered terror,
will sprout and bloom beneath your skin
and breach and brack and show within
the wood, the sap, the leafy things,
and as you lay, felled;
they’ll count your rings.