Tuesday, December 31

The Fourth Phase

Used to track shadows . . .
Used to. Now, warm in the dark.
Embraced by pillow, warped by sedation.
Blinds turned, just so.
Upstairs they sleep as in the
Third phase of death.
Wake me. If fear occurs.
Wake me.

Between slats . . .
Watching . . . interpreting . . .
Plotting the fourth phase
With daunting ingenuity.

Saturday, December 28

The Dead Thrush

Dead, you dwindle,
Caught your wing on a spindle.
You sleep now--
Will you not wake?
Pitiful bird,
To what net were you lured?
You're trapped, now--
Incautious rake!
Sorrow, you're hanging
Among the paintings.
You're stone now--
Oh, what you break!

Friday, December 27

Heart, Collapse

Hearts feather,
Candied coats endure the weather
Of all tasting tongues
Out for licks,
Or kicks,
Or sugar lapses.

Hearts weather
What tests their tethers,
Holding hard to 
Chocolate sweets,
Chunks or bars or other treats,
Or pies, perhaps.

Hearts tether,
Batter into leather,
Sticking to grief
Or the back of teeth,
Overriding what's brief,
Blueprinting new maps.

Hearts leather,
Vessels congeal into feathers.
Overcrowded, they age,
With death align
Their saccharine design.
Then, heart, collapse.

Saturday, December 21


There’s a rumble in my tumble;
When the wind blows, I might crumble.
If upon your step I stumble,
I will try to be most humble.
Why is your mouth all mumbles?
Do you turn me loose to bumble?
Now I’m lost and left to fumble
With this rumble in my tumble.

Wednesday, December 18

Bear Trap

Caught up in your wires, a copper cricket in this web
Each tug on the lines an echo into emptiness
Fabrications become collusions;
No more pretense.
A doe in these deep woods, soft hooves on leather leaves
Approaching the twilit glade where you wait
Silence rich with downy breath;
Cock your crossbow.
Lock-jawed creature, dappled in fa├žade, a voice in a void
Clairvoyance is an annoyance, sensing the iron
Teeth before they meet through
Tender flesh.


Monday, December 16

The Art of Awakening

Time lapse lashes, rise above the glow—
Movement through the iris.
First morning breath in the sunshine;
Absorb light.
In the warmth of
Electric blankets.
Must passion be red?
The art of awakening
Is peacock-aqua blue.

Saturday, December 14


raise the curtain, pull the strings
hand in glove will make it sing
little handicrafted thing
play on, puppet, play
give it roles, give it wings
dance and clap in rosy rings
light to every face it brings
play on, puppet, play

takes on life of its own
stitched up doll of fabric sewn
sightless eyes, lacking bones
dance on, plaything, dance
with sweet sighs the watchers moan
puppet with their cares has flown
trials now leave them alone
dance on, plaything, dance

fingers shift limbs from inside
no one can from puppet hide
vacant mouth, it smiles wide
growl on, sweetling, growl
again! again! the crowd has cried
deeper into it they slide
feel their hearts and brains collide
growl on, sweetling, growl

puppet wants to play today
puppet wants to find romance
puppet now is on the prowl
puppet leaves nothing to chance

Friday, December 13


You hope it will-won't be revealed
What earthly laws by shame conceal:
The Legend penned
In caverns sealed:
A golden runner, dead-end dream,
Impregnable walls, stifling seams.
You break to bend,
So it would seem.

I’m Legend! cries from deep within
You made me thus, now let me in!
You deeper send
His vampire grin.
Imprisoned, lonely in his cell,
He weeps; he plays at casting spells.
A death impends,
This banshee yells.
This dwarf, this Hyde, primordial tale
Shrieks for birth to no avail.
What he intends
Can’t be curtailed.
You wrote him; now he’s yours to bear,
Though nonchalance you’re pained to wear.
Brave heart, defend
This Legend’s dare;
Your dark friend lives. Beware! Beware!

Wednesday, December 11

Secret Admirers

Sometimes my secret admirers
Are far too secret for me.
Where are the clowns and flatterers?
Admission here is free!
The tent is up, the rope is taut,
The trapeze awaits intrepid hands;
What fancies will fill full this eve?
What trysts have been fore-planned?
Don your makeup; join the masque;
Espouse the revelry!
Harlequin—spin, love, spin!—
And merry we shall be!

Tuesday, December 10

The Expectations of Adam

He came from a plane beyond this one
With words writ on his heart,
With patches sewn across his eyes
And solitude his companion dear,
This Adam, cast from someplace pure
To move throughout this land.
Expectations made demand,
Took root beneath a callous sun,
And those who saw him were so sure
To play their ever-standard parts.
Simplicity reigned; he had no fear,
For what woe could be realized?
This Adam read through no disguise,
Offered every whim a hand.
His creed held hostage what was clear
To everyone who’s anyone.
Faith in fruition was his art;
He’d not been warned there was no cure.
Elusive prospects were his lure,
But luster masks disastrous lies.
Constrictions nibbled, picked apart--
Harbingers of dwindling sands.
He fast lost hope, was forced to shun  
What once had given him such cheer.
Twisted brows and mocking sneers
Into real disdain matured,
But none of it could be undone.
What never quite materialized
To eternal isolation damned
This one, an end before his start.
So from this world he did depart,
His dreams in rot, desires smeared,
Unwilling sacrificial lamb
Forfeited to reassure
Believing expectations wise
Is foolish when the wheel's begun.

Sunday, December 8

Nectar Words

You made her do it.
Nectar words,
Sugaring layers of corrugated steel
With glass.

She wandered halls
Waited for ambrosial speech,
The phraseology of the gods,
Honey-dewed lips
Formulating the unformulated.
Entertained the notion of discovering
Pleasure in self pity,
Satisfaction in sadness.

She waited.


And you made her do it.
Speak now only sweet nectar words,
Encasing what writhes beneath.

Saturday, December 7

You, In Your Calm

How light fills the bottom of
raindrops settled upon the glass
Of a train bound for the North
of a distant land.
Your eyes are a kaleidoscopic window
I can use as my compass
On the long trip before me—
Please hold tight my hand.
The windows of a city I fear to leave
are honey-combed squares of gold
Against a black backdrop of buildings
too tall to climb.
The wheels of this transport
are iced-over moulds
Of shells that lived once,
that counted the beads of time.
Why is there sorrow in your voice?
The way you frown—
It brings an ache
to my own pale heart.
White fingers trace your sighs,
touch the line of your crown.
Did I pull you with me
to this place where shadows dart?
No, you came of your own volition,
with knowledge of the chance.
How deep my love of you still glows—
You, in your calm.
There are dangers in letting
infatuation dance,
But I feel your name always on my lips—
a sacred psalm.

Wednesday, December 4


Frosted fog blooms,
Facets effloresce,
Fracture into reflections,
Reveal tiny spots
Perceptible to seeking eyes.
Sparking threads trace
Pictures in the stars,
Destinies cross, zip through space and time.
Ruminations scintillate,
Indigo veins
Ramify, carrying
Blood fired with thoughts of the divine.
Wayward tangles!
Atropos makes kind cuts
To remedy the cruel knots her
Sister weaves,
Connecting dots not meant for constellation.

Monday, December 2


pretty little thing
he is
wrap him inside a bell jar
display him on the console
amongst the geodes and glass skulls
attracting attention
curiosity of his cabineted world
mossy bi-orb
supporting life with life.
lovely golden thing
he is
set him on a pedestal
a sideshow stylite perched on a pillar
contemplating velvet folds
while whispers multiply
in the sweltering silence
accompanied by the night creatures
always watching.
impossible thing 
he is
a collectible amongst forgetables
feathered heartbeats
tread on little toes
cross the grass expanse
wet with midnight dew
trip over themselves to be first
in a line that laces into delicate lights
right angles in the wrong places.

Sunday, December 1


Trot-a-long, trot-a-long.
They beat Harold,
So this is his song.

Sat in the fields, a quiet lad,
But they gave him Hell
When they were mad.

Eyes fell off, and hair fell out,
Cause scarecrows aren't tough,
Ain't no doubt.

Stuffing unstuffed till just a rag
Hung on the stick,
A sagging flag.

Then a dim and dreary day,
They weren't at work;
He came to play. 

Dragged through fields of spiking plants,
Wanted to see them--
Make them dance.

Got revenge; got his win.
Left of those fools
A pair of skins.