Tuesday, July 29


back where daylights bright once lived
lived daylights,
once bright

back in warm premonitions, wrapped close
close premonitions
wrapped warm

back toward empty beginnings ended furious
furious beginnings
ended empty

back without privileges, prospects glinting dark
dark privileges
glinting prospects

back back back, this place, no more secret face, only reflections, echoes, of a flat sad thing in infinite mirrors

Sunday, July 27

By Comparison

By comparison, it’s nothing—
just a strange articulation.
Interlocking ossein
involved in bifurcation
building bulwarks, bastions, buttresses and finding flaws in fortresses;
A travesty of parody,
where one form apes my amity.
It isn’t you—that much is true—
but all this mimicry won’t do.
I’ve machinated permutation:
swap ourselves in simulation.
Them for you and you with me—
what a handsome subtlety!
Fool me once, I’ll rue the ruse; trick me twice, I’ll pay my dues.
Bloodless bustle, luckless hustle,
make of this calamity
the grave so destined for this fuss;
the nave where dolts with blunderbuss
are quick to find fragility.

Thursday, July 24

A Year

I slumbered in the summer, ducklings turned to swans.
I dreamt innocuous dreams, my love,
And now those dreams are gone.

I simmered in the autumn, when gem sparks limned the earth.
I blushed at terrible prospects, love;
Those prospects now lack mirth.

I churned all through the winter; ice thawed upon my thirst.
I watered tragic tales, my love,
And now those tales have burst.

I wept when spring skipped gaily by--I mourned the heart's defeat.
I trembled in my sorrows, love;
Those sorrows now complete.

Four seasons seem four hundred times
A thousand pains, my love.
For I now face forevermore
Without a place thereof.

Wednesday, July 23

The Existential Skeleton (excerpt)

Nobody made me a tombstone;
I guess that implies no one cares.
If nobody went to the trouble,
Does it mean I never was there?
How can I know I was living
If I can’t be sure that I died?
Does life after death even happen?
Cause I feel so empty inside.
I don’t know who I was,
So how can I know who to be?
My meaning in life is meaningless
Did anyone even love me?
Nobody made me a tombstone.
Wasn’t I somebody’s heir?
A nothing in death and a nothing in life;
I can’t help but feel it’s unfair.
When I left one world for another,
Did anyone shed a sad tear?
Purpose is purposeless; I’m just a pawn
In some cruel god’s game, I fear.
Fate, it eludes me
For no grave includes me.
If I ever lived—then why?
What might my epitaph
Now possibly read?
"He was some unremarkable guy."

Monday, July 21

In the Attic

and so pirouette the sunny flecks, so graceful floats the dust
on stuff and fragrance compressed in silence
sweet to the stomach, moment alone
dark world of wonder
hide in the seeking
sequined, the air tells no secrets
nor makes friend--you're on your own,  here.

gossamer spiders hush
tread trails in particles left by years
castles, courses, wee gardens of gray fur
panes of white, step into light
porcelain hands descend into jars, bars behind--deep all around. 

Saturday, July 19

The Mother's Heart

We move through a world in endless labor,
The pains of birth formidable.
Mortality’s our constant neighbor—
The mother’s heart comprehends.

A delicate disconnect pries at our days.
Implausible woe is commonplace.
All dance the harrowing ballet—
The mother’s heart comprehends.

Putative virtue alleviates fears:
Their children—our children—my child—myself.
Sight so unsighted, we persevere—
The mother’s heart comprehends.

The floods of this earth do rival the fire;
A blessing, our time is ephemeral.
Each man, a babe once, sinless sire—
The mother’s heart comprehends. 

Wednesday, July 16

Saint Nectan

Saint Nectan was the eldest
Of a twenty-four-child brood.
He fast became a hermit,
Lived his life under the rood.

For pigs, two cows was Nectan willed
And roamed bucolic lands,
Till sly purloiners dark one night
Removed them from his hands.

By turn of fate the men he found;
He preached to them God’s bread,
But lacking in propriety
They dethroned his holy head.

Off went the thieves to do more ill
While Nectan’s neck did bleed,
And were miracles never done, good friend,
His end would have been this deed.

But God’s old ways were far from dull
And so the good saint—he rose!
In hand he held the mane of his head
To carry wherever he chose.

Where did he choose, this grisly sight,
To lay himself to rest?
Back to the well where he once said
His prayers at God’s behest.

As drops of blood fell to the ground
Foxglove in poison grew.
Each step he took made flowery path,
And followers came, who knew.

Let’s not forget those wicked men
Who thought they’d done him in;
The one went mad, the other atoned
By burying good Nectan within.

Tuesday, July 15


Your story has already been told,
Through passages of speech,
In arenas void of flesh,
Under glass ceilings and peeping creatures,
Its words reverberating into nothing.
Crouching, silent as the stars
Pour crystalline light into
Pockets of water,
They sealed the lips that
Once spoke greatness.