less than friend

I came for glory,
bloodied, storied,
wishing on what evils lurked in the sky;
I came for you.
I know.
It’s true,
I hoped you wouldn’t feel this reason why.

You held my head to the ground
like the most disloyal hound
and I am less than that,
less than friend, less than dust,
so small and savage in my hope that you
will turn, favorable, with eyes renewed
upon me, seeing at last
everything I want you to.

old flames

My love is ancient and
barely hanging on;
my relatives keep their brave faces,
my friendships sigh and speak of other things,
and all would rather if it died,
quietly in the night.
It doesn’t recognize the faces that come and go,
doesn’t grasp the subtleties of itself,
but by all measures it is still alive,
for my love is ancient and
barely hanging on.

where are you

Do you go to the old familiar places

Seeking the old familiar faces

Do you sip on smoke, devour drink,

Make yourself idiot enough to think

Of me, of us, of icicles in March,

Of starlight smearing across the sky

Scratches on the celestial arch,

Where are you? And, why?


When has the truth ever laid
sweeter on the tongue
than a lie?
When has a lie sounded
less pleasing to the ear
than the truth?
I don’t know what you think I think
of you, or what I
think of you,
I only know that,
without apology,
the lies are locked in memory.

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.