Not all rot is ignoble;
in fact, there is a rot that
pierces through the skin of grapes,
once-good grapes,
and, from within,
makes them sweeter;
such grapes will wither
if picked at just
the right moment –
will yield the finest wine.


bless each day
that carries me further away
from your fingertips, your
soft lips,
bless each day
that carries me downstream,
memories drowning in my lungs,
and dying in their way.
These memories bleed out from
so many wounds,
clouding the water and
drawing mean eyes,
bless each day that carries me further,
and bless the day that these wounds close,
bless them all,
and damn them, too.

Ancient Law

The chattermarks of dead men,
rich men,
gnawing at every trunk and stem
feigning grief and biting, biting
delicious mouthfuls, delightful helpings,
ripped from the mouths of babes unborn,
“Oh!”, they say, “Oh! Oh!
There is not enough to go around,
has never and will never be enough!”
they say, they say, their teeth clacking against bone,
jaws working to tear and swallow all the meat
of this world,
more meat than is needed by
any world at all.

powers that be

Empty threats from empty men
flood out from a high tower;
empty thrones and empty crowns
hold falsities of power;
and man has not invented yet
a crop that blooms when fed by lies,
but wealth is close, and power closer:
and power does or power dies.

type of man

What kind of man do you pretend to be?
just another retelling of
a recording of
an echo of
a shout?
What kind of man do you pretend to be?
the pigment on the parchment,
the pretense of shade?
What kind of man do you pretend to be?
or, worse, what type of man
do you pretend not to be?

Werewolf’s Prayer

Give me the strength to be more than a monster,
Give me the courage to be more than a man;
Oh, Lord, make me material,
shed away my myth
and feed it to the fire like a caterpillar’s cast.
Oh, let the moon shine well upon my head and
may my snarl rattle the dead;
let my fangs lay into flesh and
let mankind know it was never a predator,
merely a clever prey.

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.