Monthly Archives: March 2017

Our Better World

Me and Sierra, laying under the stars,

dewy grass, cool March night, almost morning.

We pass a bottle of red wine, we pass a cigarette,

and we talk about the dreams of a better world.

The stars roll on, indifferent and unseeing,

as the first of the dawn tears a slice in the night.

We hang our dreams and angels upon their light,

a dream as the world loses all tenderness and feeling.

Drunk, out of smokes, Sierra rolls over, lays her head

upon my shoulder. I kiss her head, and squeeze her close.

A perfect night, a sweet moment, as The Red Dragon comes

to cast the stars into the sea, and our better world burns.

The Sky Was Blue and She Smiled

Sitting in the meadow, first of spring,

Heart raw and bleeding, but healing.

All that had happened, all that had been done,

All she had done, was like the weight on Atlas.


It was warm, the wind gentle, tender.

The sky was blue, and she smiled,

Thinking of something happy from childhood,

A good time shared by her and her mother.


Fighting back to the light, after it all,

Back in the forest that had been her Eden with teeth,

Demons and mermaids and spirits abounding, calling out;

She heard the whispers of the wild, lonely little girl she had been.


In between dreams and the sun, as she walked on dusty light,

The Unicorn came from the Dark Forest, and knew the good

That was reeling and bleeding and calling out,

And The Unicorn came and laid its head in her lap.


And whatever came now, the light would shine, the light would shine.

High In The Sky You Look Down

Long goddamn car ride, late at night, not even the radio.

We could talk. We talk a lot. But only certain things you hear.

I watch the moon as we drive dark country roads, one little light.

I let it’s bone dry luminescence wash away unshed tears.

The world is spinning into death, but you put the blame on victims.

High in the sky you look down, just jerk telling me I have it coming.

The good times, the times when I’m glad we are friends are fading,

as more and more you tell me the knife to my throat is a kiss from God.

But the moon is a woman, faithful and bright, the real eye of paradise.

Angels fucked off elsewhere, and demons all to intimate in your dreams.

And friends become uncaring, strangers who are only there to preach.

But the moon is bright, even as she fades, even as friendship burns to ashes.

Draining Light, Late Afternoon

The Devil is in my head, draining the light quicker

than the sun falling from my window, late afternoon.

Not even the thought of her, or the half empty wine bottle,

or the lamenting aria, can make me quiet, or feel anything.

Afternoon on a wasted day, and I wish I could sleep, sleep

until The Devil left for some other poor fucker, and I might

smile thinking of her kissing me, or delight in soft drunkenness,

or know the sweet sorrows of an aria for unrequited love.

The Devil steals all joy and light, but Jesus says I am an unworthy kind,

or all those assholes on TV who love him do, and so I put what tatters

of faith or hope in the one who loves me, even as the afternoon goes dark,

that what Shard of Eden can be found in my brokenness, comes from her touch.

Foolish Promises

Young girl, she walks the hills
and the secret places in the wastes.

She watches the sun rise and fall

and bathes in the stars silver light.

She weeps in companion’s arms,

taking comfort in their warmth,

for soon she shall pass away.

The warrior king promised The Lord,

“Grant me victory in battle

and I will sacrifice to you

the first thing that greets me

when I return to my home.”

As the warrior rode into battle,

his daughter, the only child

and the king’s most beloved,

waited for her father to return,

eager to wrap him in her arms,

to know he was safe and home again.

And the battle raged and raged,

the ground soaked the blood of soldiers

and the tears of the fallen nation.

The warrior king proclaimed his victory,

standing over the ruin of his enemies.

“Thank you My Lord.” He prayed.

“For surely you were at my side

and delivered my enemies to me.”

The daughter, the most beloved,

saw her father riding towards their home,

worn and weary and scarred, but alive.

Among the music of tamborines

and the voices rejoicing in triumph,

she ran to her father and embraced him.

“Oh father, I’m so glad you’re home.”

And the king pushed his daughter away,

and he howled to the stars above

and to the ever silent moon.

“My child, my child, my most beloved!

You have no idea of what you have just done.”

Promised she was to The Lord for victory,

she must be burnt and sacrificed,

the price for the king’s victory was his only child.

“Father, I know I must perish now,

but grant me time to wander the hills

and smell the salty wind of the sea

and lament in the embrace of companions,

for I shall never marry, nor have a precious child.”

She wandered the hills and saw their wonders

and smelled the salty air by the sea,

felt it’s sting on her tender flesh.

She wept in the arms of her companions

before sleeping, knowing soon she would pass away.

And she returned to her father, as promised,

and she lay down on the wood gathered

and wept not as the flames consumed her,

and the hot wind carried her ashes to Heaven.

(Judges 11, verses 1-40.)

Reply all


Your ghost Jocelyn, is here in this hot summer night,

As heat lightning flashes silently and brightly across

The far side of the like, where demons and dreams linger.


You’re alive still, having long outgrown me and our

Childhood games and mischievous days on the lake,

In the waters where mermaids bore us to Eden.


I am, alive, or perhaps dead, left with my own loss

And broken sleep and dreams that turn to ashes

As I try to close my hand around incense smoke.


I sit on the dock with a bottle of red wine, watching

The heat lightning that’s roar I cannot hear or touch,

Just as I cannot hear or touch your grace, now we are grown.

To Be A Dream Kept

The edge of this dust choked town, West Texas, the start of another brutal summer.

I put on a show, I put on a face, a smiled sweetly, and yes, I strung that bastard along.

He offered a diamond to be his wife, to be his lover, to be HIS, to be a dream kept.

I always felt his eyes upon me, in the hall at school, and as I cheered the football team.

I know what he wants. I know his kind.


I made him believe I agreed, that I was his and that he had me and that it was done.

I let him slip the ring on my finger, and I kissed his greedy mouth, his hungry breath.

I told him to meet me at the courthouse at 9 sharp, and we’d be wed and bound forever.

I kept my face clean, the anger out of my eyes, and we hugged goodbye, and he was gone.

I know what I want. I know I don’t want his kind.


The Jeweler on the edge of town, counts out the money for the ring, a couple of thousand.

I’ve got the car lined up, an old convertible, a supposed classic, but it’ll get me to Dallas.

It’ll get me another life, far from her, far from where I was just the beauty, the prize to win.

I’ll be gone by tonight, gone from him, from this sweltering and dust choked town forever.

I know what I want. I know I don’t want his kind.

The Warmth Of Her Name

All is bright, they say. All is well, they tell me.

I dream of paradise by a great and grey ocean.

I burn her photograph, but ashes in a green bottle.

I burn the face that haunts me, to put it out of my mind,

My dreams, the morbid fantasies of my drunk and foolish heart.


The ashes in the bottle, a lock of her golden hair, the kiss she gave.

I put them in and seal it with white candle wax, from a candle somehow burning.

I put the treasures and the accursed words I used to woo her on the glass.

I throw the bottle into that great and grey ocean, let those dark waters take her,

And the dreams and wonders and devastating adoration to the end of the world.


I fall to the sand, white and cold and moist, and let that bitter wind end all feeling.

I feel her face fading from my memory, the warmth of her name cooling in my heart.

I feel the gnawing desire, the ambition for companionship thwarted, fretting on the wind.

I feel the freedom of emptiness, the only peace the lack of wanting what cannot ever be.

I feel the angel curse my name, as it salvages that love from the great and grey ocean.

Watching Bright Eyes

Exotic, model looks, a face of an aloof and cold angel.

But she is warm and bright, a beacon when she smiles.


She wears her hair in a ponytail, under a straw cowboy hat,

And a white tank top, tight denim jeans, and fancy boots.


I love hearing her talk, hearing her laugh, watching bright eyes.

I love the way those bright eyes alight upon my hidden face.


Southern accent, slow and proud drawl, I don’t hear even back home.

Southern accent, like a girl I knew long ago, who loved me so tender.


I want to love her wholly and unreservedly, without a thought of the moon.

I get lost in assumptions, shoot down my own best heart, assume the worst.


I leave the bar, to get air, or go home, or call down some angel who could be bothered.

She comes out to me, asks if I’m okay. I insist I am. She doesn’t believe me, give a hug.


I want her to stay with me, in this cool night, beneath the stars and think not of the moon.

I want to talk to her, know her for real, and not as an angel and flickering flame of dream.


She watches me for a moment, sad eyes and worried smile, and she goes back to the bar.

I get lost in assumptions, shoot down my own best heart, assume the worst.