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.

The Calm After The Storm

There are moments when the wind has blown and
swept the past away;
moments when the lightning has scorched the corn and
the rain, falling as a thousand silver arrows,
has carelessly harvested the peaches.
The wailing is done and the rains have now passed;
the land is level and wild.
These are moments when all is ruin,
born from no particular wrath;
These are the calm moments,
the trying moments,
where we ask the only meaningful question:

What is worth rebuilding?

The Color In The Wall

The Color in the Wall is crying out,
in long and horrible gasps,
The Color in the Wall is blind and vicious
and on the soul it rasps.
The Color in the Wall is hard to see,
and from town to town it follows me;
The Color in the Wall will soon break free,
but only if I let it be.