Thursday, November 28


falling specks of  lovely light
pretty little crystal flight
you / me
in enchanting chilly night

Saturday, November 23

Something Wicked

He stole into the moonlit night
Beheld a fright
Blanched horses' flanks
He turned the crank

And round the dark stampede began
The wooden clan
Like glit'ring gems
Below brass stems

Churning, groaning, dead yet living
Colors blurring
Carillon whirring

Carousel of something wicked
Took his ticket
Glossy nostrils
 Snorted peril

Bright bulbs fizzled, faces mirrored
Shrieking terror
Stallion hooves stomped
Clacking teeth chomped

Then--no more--the music stilled
The foaming horses ate their fill

Wednesday, November 20

Saint Kevin


Long ago, in Glendalough, 
Saint Kevin spent his days.
He lived alone in a house of stone, 
his hands aloft in praise.
One misted morning without a warning 
a blackbird fluttered down,
And in Kevin’s palm, steady and calm, 
she laid an egg speckled brown.
Gentle Kevin, so near to Heaven, 
could not bear to loose the egg,
So he did his best to become its nest 
and move neither arm nor leg.
When the egg did crack and a bird in black 
emerged and took to air,
Dear Kevin the saint, without a complaint, 
returned to his life of prayer.

Saturday, November 16

Question Nothing

Question nothing of your fate
When gilded stars stream witches’ blood,
When magpies prick behind the ferns,
When bitter loves are tombed in mud.

Acquiesce in gratitude
If moistened eyes meet glaciers’ paths,
If wings are gifted for a jaunt,
If sleeping beasts are roused for laughs.

Hunt for silence in yourself
Where oceans crash with cores of fire,
Where urchins feed on shafts of sun,
Where oysters with their pearls conspire.

Emulate a prism's show
For flood waters will rise and fall,
For devils cannot stomp too long,
For glory’s found in knowing all.

Friday, November 15


A summer voyage
Bears the desert dust of
Uber-bright days.
Beneath the half-closed lids of
Sun-hazed eyes,
Cornflower blues merge with the aureate
Mirages wafting above
Gray reality.
Sweltering, but sweet.
Still the pictures that come so fast,
Pouring from the mocking stars—
Flooding the veins of a miscalculated
Desire for
The impossible.
Warm blocks of time,
Pulsating rhythms,
Alcohol-induced daydreams,
Melting ice, and
Strangers—so beautiful—
Drifting through the lit streets
Of a ravenous mind
That can only remember memories as 
Only recall the golds and smiles of a
          season long gone—
Only hope to grasp such
A globe of embellished recollection
With fingers
All . . . too . . . real.

Thursday, November 14


Labyrinth, hide this heart,
Down corridors pocked with doors.
Though tunnels may turn and corners collide,
The safety it seeks is yours.
Labyrinth, lose this thought,
Up stairways that never end.
Though ballrooms crumble and cellars burn,
The solace you give is its friend.
Labyrinth, smother this dream,
With walls that press all parts.
Though ceilings soar high and marble floors crack,
The freedom it hates will depart.
Labyrinth, make empty this hope,
Let minotaurs tear it to shreds.
It wanders so frightened and cries for its end;
It won’t be at peace ‘till it’s dead.

Monday, November 11


Child, fluttering against the dark,
Moth wings dusted, gilt with a translucence
Manifest only to the heart,
Become what you promise to be.

Boy, moments past are ever-present,
Always who we are, an infinite endurance
Flitting above what is permanent,
Become what you promise to be.

Darling, the webs you build, they flower,
No small thing hopes for avoidance,
And gods, our dreams, devour,
Become what you promise to be.

Love, ensnared in winter’s box,
Winged thing, you move in elegance,
Turning keys in time’s false locks,
Become what you promise to be.

Sunday, November 10


Understand the way grass blades embrace the wind:
That’s how I’m waiting to feel . . .
The wind, frightening in its potential,
Is, to the grass, the only thing real.

Belief in the silence of the purest shaft of sunlight:
That’s all I’m asking to hold . . .
Whispering from the skies, glowing on the leaves,
The sunbeam’s life purpose is told.

Mimic how drops of water collect light in the darkness:
That’s what I need to do . . .
Despite their short durations, the droplets
Know how to make one beauty two.

Gain admittance past the quiet boundaries of your nature:
That’s where I wish to go . . .
Our blood is bound by what we sense;
Enchantment makes it so.

Saturday, November 9

The End

The crystal box of hours,
Minutes, years parsimoniously parcels out
Their end, not their beginning.

She jetés on legs of glass,
Each step a tick-tick-tick closer
To her end, not her beginning.

He grows in hot skin breaths,
Reigns a kingdom of intimate dreams
About his end, not his beginning.

They—locked in lifeless lassitude—
Forever suspended in tremulous space,
Not meant for this world, this rule-bound place,
They begin at the end.

Friday, November 8

The Corpse's Composition

A corpse composes its decomposition,
Caressing the lusts that were its competition.
Awareness—it goes, but yearnings keep living,
The binds that confined them at last more forgiving.
Hungers don’t die; no, they burn after rot
Has consumed all the parts temporality forgot,
And a fantasy never fulfilled pulsates on,
A pumping gut now that the real thing is gone.
In darkest holes where the white worm holds its feast,
A million bone puppets are posthumous priests.
Locked into their coffins of sumptuous decay,
Mandibles chatter of what held them prey.
Though cognizance vanished, and souls found their cure,
Passions turned animate stir and endure.
Ten, twenty, two hundred, a thousand writhe deep
In the catacombs where all the true secrets keep.

Monday, November 4


Eliciting opium stares
From the eyes of men in
Distant halls.
Delicate flowers,
Sing yourselves to sleep.
Glamour contorts the
Visions entertained
By those enamored
With its perforated promises.

Saturday, November 2

Daydream's Wheel

Lying, back to the soft earth,
The wild brush reaching into the blue above,
Heather and thistle and lemongrass
Down drift in the air,
Grounding us--all that we know is real.

I find you, for what it's worth,
Less fictional than love,
A collection of short stories that last,
And for you, as for this place, I care.
There are so many lucid layers to peel.

Bare feet, laughter, a smile's birth,
Counting the colors of the wildflowers that hover
In time as it moves from present to past.
Perfection is a sentiment, perhaps unfair.
We are placed in this gentle ideal

With only the sunlight's unfolding girth
To dapple our skin through the foxglove.
This moment, fragile as glass,
Enchanting as it is rare,
Spins endless, a cog in this daydream's wheel.

Friday, November 1


Waiting, never watching, not this pot
Want to look but scared to find
Scritch, scritch, scritch . . . it’s getting hot, hot, hot. 
Nails inside the dry, hollow rind,
Something striving, a cat stuck in the wall
Trembling like a ballooning spider in the mind
Don’t get close, your glance might fall
The liquid pearls rising, morphing into boil
Toxic! Warning! Danger always starts small
The velvet fern of a seedling claws through ill soil
Hotter, hotter, hotter. . . and the ruby rush
Emerges; the rapid plip, plipping of the water toils,
 Reaches the tempestuous point ! ! ! ʰweeeeeeesh!