Monthly Archives: July 2017

The Night Is Nothing

It wouldn’t matter if you were blonde,
if your skin was soft and clear.
There is nothing.
There is nothing.
There is nothing.
There is nothing for you here.
Stink of weed and cigarettes in your clothes.
That wasn’t you and it always shows.
This is nothing.
This is nothing.
This is nothing.
This is nothing but a pose.
So few stars, just sickly yellow streetlights.
There is no warmth in this top and dark tights.
This was nothing.
This was nothing.
This was nothing.
This was nothing but a mistake, dead to rights.
If she’d been true, and pure, she’d have loved you
as you were, lost and mad and always so very blue.
She was nothing.
She was nothing.
She was nothing.
She was nothing but a mockery of your angel hue.
Mom might be waiting up, not ever worth the trouble.
Dad will be asleep until roused, with his sad eyes and stubble.
A night is nothing.
A night is nothing.
A night is nothing.
A night is nothing unless your love comes from the same rubble.

Ghostly Hands

Ashes drift from the flames into the air.

I try to catch them, but they go through

my ghostly hands.

My words, my soul, my solace of speaking,

even only to myself in journals, so I could

put a name on this death.

Those sacred words, my holy writ,

scripture of the secret places in me,

are being destroyed.

I told of his hateful words, wild anger,

the fists that fell were others wouldn’t

see the bruises.

I am gone, and I am gone again, because

he doesn’t want to look bad. His good name

is worth more than my soul.

Ashes drift, his face Halloween orange, flickering.

Once I would have loved that. Found that beautiful.

I once found him beautiful.

My words, my sacred sorrows, the ink that drew not

blood when he drew mine, are gone, gone forever.

Sparks go through my ghostly hands.

Sylvia At The Beach

Sylvia on the beach,
As the storm rumbles,
Off in the crystal ocean.
It’ll be here soon enough.

It’s her birthday, her party.
The rain is starting to spatter.
The present she wanted badly
She shows off to her friends.

Storm opens up, everyone scatters.
Sylvia, laughing, runs for cover.
The rain doesn’t hurt at first.
But it will.

Sympathetic Magic

Sympathetic magic, superstitious sweetness,

as the night falls slowly, and I hope for peace and rest.

A martyr, a saint, an angel in a young woman,

a smile as warm as the morning sun.

I laid my sword at her feet, when she was taken,

to show her love and faithfulness, though I fell again.

Headful of bad shit that doesn’t leave, not even a kiss

chases it back to Tartarus, or out of my life.

Sweet songs from when I was young playing, repeating,

that bring a wisp of the child I once was

and I put the slideshow on my laptop, her face, happy, alive,

shining, the mourning sun, glow of a star taken by His hand.

Sympathetic magic, that her light will chase all the bad shit away,

that I’ll dream in Eden and be whole again as I sleep.

Angel, agape coming to me imperiled heart, so I can take her hand,

and follow her to a better world, better dream, better heart.

Sweet dreams, please.

Be an angel like her, please.


Blue, My Favorite Color

The train rocks and shimmies and shakes,

and it almost lulls me to sleep, half awake,

like an infant in her mother’s arms.

No lullabies.

The brown townhouses, the little yards,

lights on in second story windows, life,

like tableaux for my god like eyes.

I am not godlike.

The Atlantic, I imagine cold, gunmetal gray,

and deep and as empty as the sky above it,

which will, perversely, be blue and bright.

Blue, my favorite color.

I sit on the beach, the Atlantic Blue, eternal,

and not a cloud in the sky, I drink iced tea.

I finish it, go under, lost like a drop in infinity.

Cold water doesn’t feel.

Childhood Jungle

James Agee Park, ragged and scraggly,

is not the childhood jungle of the playground

of my elementary school, hemmed in by

wire fencing, enticing with it’s mysteries.

It’s 3 am, and still hot and humid, without mercy.

So few stars, but there is rocous laughter,

loud music, raised voices.

I drink iced tea I bought for a dollar.

I might be here till morning. I might leave in a

minute. I’m waiting for the nerve to go,

or for aliens, the fey, or angels to take me home.

For anything to change.

Few stars roll above me, but they broke their promise,

their light did not show the way, and holy writ cut out

my innocence and lust, so I could be a better consumer.

I finish my tea, and crush the ice in my teeth.

A light blinks in the sky, moves strangely, almost drunkenly.

Maybe the mad bastards or the alien bastards have come,

or it’s just an out of reach wonder in a bad, sleepless night.

I remember a past love, and hold the memory fondly.

Simple, But Beautiful

Blue dress, simple but beautiful,

down to the tips of her soft shoes.

Wide brimmed hat, shaded eyes,

a pretty outfit she did not once choose.

The night is wet, just after a late rain,

and it’s so still as Sunday Morning comes.

She hears his car coming up the road,

the bass thumping like timpani drums.

She could run to Alberta prairies with him,

to the place he’s made for them to start anew.

A place quiet, away from a sleeping world,

with pretty flowers sparkling with spring dew.

She could stay in this town that feels is taking

all that she cherished, all that the angels command.

But does this man love her, or is she a dream?

Chose this dress; what else will he always demand?

His car is coming, too fast, too loud, and she sighs.

Will he grow bored, will her grow mean, up in the plains?

The world is the world, wherever you runaway to,

same heartache and tears and emotional strains.

She’ll have to choose, stay or go, run or fight,

go with this man, or find another way to be alive.

The blades of fate cut you skin whichever way you go,

but there must be a way in this darkness to thrive.

Hope Is A Troubling Sin

The day is gray, house in disarray,
walking up the stairs, I pray.

Rain on the window, where did my girl go?
What is this demon below?

Her door ajar, the tape star,
a galaxy only seen from afar.

Dirty clothes, a lotus pose,
what The Devil surely knows

is that she is gone, before dawn.
just her demon’s pawn.

I touch her skin, cold within,
hope is a troubling sin.

I weep, the girl I will keep,
in my heart raw and deep.

Peace comes down, gone from this town,
she is in heaven, in pure white gown.

“I love you.” I speak, find what you seek
now that neither of us can ever be weak.





Cutting The Dark

Faith is the name my mother gave me.

Faith she always had. Always all she had.

She couldn’t keep the demons back.

She couldn’t keep him from betraying me.

Faith held her together and held me close.

But my heart was wrung out without deliverance.

He took something precious from me.

Something that’s beautiful for other people.

He took something precious from me.

And God looked the other way.

Out in the desert hills, cold in the night,

I look up at the sky, all those distant stars

Faith is the name my mother gave me

and  it’s in short supply, as I smoke my last ciggie.

Faith my mother always had. Always all she had.

Faith? Is it my name? Is it me? Is it in the sky?

I see a blue light come out of nowhere, up there,

sharp and warm, cutting the dark, spilling bloody light.

I feel something I can’t dream, or say with my tongue.

Demon or angel, it’s a passing in the night, a terrifying wonder.

And then it’s gone, a flashing spark blinking out,

and I am without a thought of what to wipe away.

Faith is the name my mother gave me. My name.

Out in these desert hills so cold in the night.

These lonely hills I could walk home or to Tartarus.

To the underworld or to the arms of my mother.

He took something precious from me, forever tainted.

But there’s a blue light in the sky and another world.

Faith is the name my mother gave me. She gave that to me.

Maybe God is indifferent, but mother is not, not ever at all.

I walk back home, to mother, to home, to walking on to paradise.

Maybe God will come through, and he’ll wipe away my tears.

But I know my mother will tonight.

Will We Go Together To The Sea?

In the mountains, by the Alleghany River,
we hang out in a bare white room,
listening to chirpy pop music,
talking about God a mile a minute.
Your hair is pink again, and you
wear that ragged army jacket
your dad wore when he was in,
torn jeans, worn down Chuck Taylors.
God, something more, escape,
all the scattered broken glass thoughts
tossed out onto the floor helter-skelter,
making pretty colors for a moment.
I smoke another ciggie, try and keep up
and add my own colors and shards,
though I should just let you talk,
have the floor, and just follow you down.
We go outside this tired and weighed
down house that slumps it’s shoulders
and sighs with the excess of the wet winter
and misty morning, never ending rain.
You put you head on my shoulder.
Impulsively, I kiss your bright hair.
I think you smile. You don’t pull away.
You take my hand in yours.
The river down below, you say,
is like us in  time, just flowing on,
until the end, death, the sea,
where we are all together in heaven.
We are quiet then, and still, and the
come down is sweet and warm
in our sleepless eyes and thrumming hearts.
I want to travel with you, down to the sea.