Monthly Archives: October 2016

Blood, Milk and Honey

A pilgrim’s tattoo, marking the embers of faith,

Marking where the cross become a muttered word,

And her kiss burned a sacrifice.


A woman may know, or is too divine for love,

Or keeps the shepherdess veil closed to all,

And sees only god’s face in the water.


Outside the city, where prophets roared,

And the words drew blood and milk and honey,

I walk the path to her.


What does the penatent offer to the prideless?

What does prayers offer to the contentedly concealed?

What words can I make for her?


The tattoo itches and burns, light perdition and salvation,

And I know not these hills and her home with the lost,

But I only seek what isn’t seen or found.




Races, Shootouts and Air Hockey

Daisy, so bright and free,

               As we play in the arcade,

               Races, shootouts, and air hockey.


               You win and cry out proudly,

               Hands above your head,

               Every bit of you flushed with pride.


               I may lose, but I win, seeing you

               So happy, so pleased, so cocksure,

               So beautiful in your happiness.


               Bouncing around the mall,

               I buy a poster of my celeb crush,

               And you buy a shirt for a favorite band.


               Eat ice cream by the fountain,

               You talk about your novel writing

               And a planned tripped to Tel-Aviv.


               I feel so peaceful, so sure, with you,

               And all the glitter in your voice,

               All the manna in your smile.


               I steal a quick picture, as you

               Blow a bubble with your gum,

               The goofball in the brave woman.


               And later, I look at it,

               Sitting in the dark of my room,

               Trying to hold onto that perfect night.


               Trying to hold onto you.

French Woman

French woman singing on the radio, calling to me from the dark

of this Berlin apartment, as the night passes by without sleep.

A song I’m sure is full of love and tenderness, though I can’t understand.

Another war is brewing. Another pointless sacrifice, that will change nothing.

And still that French woman sings of something pure and sweet.

I think of walking hand in hand with a pretty women, when it’s all really done.

But it will never be done. It’s just the same tired shit on and on forever.

I know I go in the morning, to face the awful thing they’ve done.

French woman sings, I know, of something good and pure and sweet.

I listen, try to hold onto her voice like the last beam of light from the sun.

There will be so little of it left, after all the fire that is to come.

January Bridge

Juliette, did you say The Angel Michael would watch over us?

               High and burning with fire, pure and sharp wings, might sword,

               Up in the sky and in our hearts, in our souls, ever brave, ever faithful.


               I see the stars falling out of the sky, the moon as blood, the sun dark,

               I see bared teeth and clenched fists, gun barrels pointed at so many,

               I see the promises of a savior become grotesque in their breaking.


               It’s January, Juliette, and a New Year has come, but it all feels the same.

               Where is Michael, as this sad season turns bleaker with our broken hearts?

               Where is Michael, as the faithful sharpen their fangs, file their talons?


               Maybe, Juliette, the falling snow is manna from his outspread wings,

               And this hunger for peace and love is being answered with the quiet

               And the momentary innocence of a snow morning, as we sleep.


               I hope I can hang onto that hope.

Margot On My Arm

A night out in Downtown Knoxville, with Margot on my arm.

Dining at some fine place, winning her with my wit and charm.

White wine and succulent feasts, the music slow and romantic.

I would be bright as the sun in her eyes, not broken and frantic.


The night warm in early May, whipping her golden hair in whips.

She would laugh, and I’d kiss her head, as the moon continues it’s trips

around the stardust oceans and would take a moment to shed a glow

on a night more perfect, and more wounding, than most mortals know.


We’d watch a classic film at the Tennessee Theatre: “Roman Holiday”.

We’d be lovers caught in a dream of innocence, the night ours to play.

Great romance on a silver screen could give our own dalliance a wink.

Kiss her now, hold her now, look at those green eyes now, before they blink.


At Volunteer Landing, the lights of Gay Street Bridge melting in the water,

we’d snuggle and whisper our secrets and pick names for a future daughter.

We’ll make oaths to each other, vows of devotion we can’t help but break.

A moment in time this perfect drugs us and we forget what we have at stake.


Naked embrace after love making, my face in her golden hair, my mind calm.

The touch of another, and the dream of sex, is a devious and fruitful balm.

What if morning never came, and we only dreamed here forever, untroubled.

What if we could be as happy as this, our perfect hearts light mightily doubled.

Gilt and Metal

A girl, a teenager, in armor,

               Rode into the dark of the world,

               Into the mud and pain of battle,

               And was an angel in this world.


               And I sit, in a small park, trembling,

               Overcome with fear and sorrows,

               At what will come, and what I’ve done,

               And what I’m afraid I may truly be.


               I walk in a falling evening, in falling cold,

               To where her statue stands, in gilt and metal,

               And look upon her, and wish I was always her,

               Always free in purity and light.


               Will she forgive me? Will she let me in?

A Tiger Face

8mm film, burnt orange sun, the warm summer.

               She is there on the screen, young and fierce.

               She smiles, and makes a playful snarl, a tiger face.


               The rock high above the river, red bikini, she jumps in.

               The film is silent. I can’t remember her battle cry laughter.

               A splash in the washed out blue. She looks up and waves.


               Her sunning herself on the rock, beach towel, little radio.

               I know the song we loved was planning. It’s only a relic now.

               She blows a kiss. She laughs. She poses haughty, like an angel.


               The film is over. The projector spools out and goes dark.

               I walk up the stairs to rejoin the waking world, to her,

               A woman, a wife, who was not the young woman I was watching.

Florida Rust

Rust colored hair whipping against a rust colored sky.

               The beach is just ahead. We’re almost there. Almost free.


               Cold grey water, the color of steel, endless out before us.

               Songs unheard for so long stir in our ears, our broken hearts.


               The spell is fading as we walk into the water, legs to tails.

               Dive into the water, swim back home, back to those we love.


               Let the ones who took us never find us. Let us be free forevermore.

               Our mother’s kingdom is right before us, but it will never be the same.


Still Warm In The Sky

Your love doesn’t light this darkness,

               Because you always have to be right,

               The holiest man in the room.


               Your love doesn’t chase this cold,

               Because you can’t hear the wind,

               And my cries fall on deaf ears.


               Your love is no comfort or harbor

               In the storm that has come down,

               You still bask in the sun.


               Still warm in the sky.

               Still safe in your ignorance.

               Still safe knowing you’re a prophet

               And without a single blemish.


               I just get talked down to.

               Condescended too.

               Told I am childish, foolish.


               So I face the darkness and my fears

               Alone in the night, alone without you,

               Because you can’t see what could make you doubt,

               What you don’t want to see of your brethren.


               I won’t cry when they come for you.

She Calls My Name II

The road to the sky, mountains empty and dark, the wind bleeding.

               No moon and the stars are still, the veil of the sky to the earth torn.

               Music full of sorrow and resignation at the coming doom of innocence.

               Soothes me as I drove, not wanting to come, but having no choices left.


               On the sidewalk of the pull off, silence is it’s own terror, it’s own howl.

               The dot of blue light, unmoving, far off but there’s no distance with her.

               Inside my mind and wrapped in the skin of a bitter lover lost to youth.

               Angel’s wings draw tears that the feeds to the demons she made from me.


               On the grass the soul is drawn into the sky, into the wastes of paradise.

               She called my name, a golden sunbeam from softly noon, not tender at all.

               Angel’s wings tear the skin and close the unseen eye, light is a darker path.

               A hand to hold because two around your throat, and she chokes off true love.


               Another face, truer, as I know I was made broken numbers and holy damnation.

               I hold another’s face in my lost dreams, and bleeding memories white from cold.

               But She called my name, and the starlight kills all the chance at a darling triumph.

               She called my name, and hell pulled a true love, to give me to the cruelty of angels.