Monthly Archives: September 2017

Wash The Stars With Tears

A mother to be, a blood pact

with the child and the world,

the daylight coming.

On the beach, warm gulf waters,

dressed in black, watching the

angel come ashore.

A soul may burn, or be the sun,

or just wash the stars with tears,

like this mother to be did.

A whispering in the air, sweet,

but their a sting in it’s notes,

and in this joy.

The tide rolls in, over her bare feet,

and that angel has come, seal unbroken,

the words decided.

The angel kisses her head, makes an

ashen cross, a blood pact with the sun,

never to be taken back.

Tanya Was Dreaming

Tanya was dreaming, halfway to heaven and the stars,
and she comes down now, shaken awake,
and writes the words of her soft visions.
The music Matthew plays, on the little 4-track,
through the cheap headphones, still whispers
those angel voices in her ears, heard in the sky.
The night is warm, and gives rest now,
as she writes the words, and sings them for him,
the marriage that comes from their marriage.
Her voice clear as rain, warm as the stars,
along with the enveloping tones, the soft wings,
flight for a restless mind.
Tanya and Matthew cuddle on the couch now,
his arms around her as if in prayer, as if in thanks,
and together they dream in the sky.

Something To Hang Upon A Star

She plays the drums, lost in it,
simpatico beats, joyous racket.

Working all the energy of love,
scent of her lover in a gift jacket.

Maybe write songs, like as a girl.
Maybe her lover plays guitar.

Something shared in creation,
something to hang upon a star.


Clear, no bad thoughts, fears.
Just the rhythm, just the noise.

Not worrying about grace,
or that perfect model poise.

Hum of flow, just this thing.
Just this girlhood past time.

No pleasing fanged men,
whose temper turn on a dime.


Thunder rolls out in the sea.
Salty air in this hotel suite.

She stops her drum playing,
thinks of a perfect day in Crete.

Her and her lover, just young,
almost normal, almost ordinary.

Photoshoot soon, model glamour.
All this light and magic to carry.


The Assumption of Lilies

A night, cold in February, ghosts on my breath,
the silent fear, little fevers that come now
because no one can comfort you.

I cannot touch your face, or wipe away tears,
or raise the dead or even bring down the
Wrath of God. “Broken Arrow!”

Is love honey in Elysium, giving a sweet taste,
as the eternal sun dries the blood, heals pain?
Does it’s taste tell you, you are remembered?


No tracks in the snow, but you walked on air.
What turn into the cold snow, moonlight, was taken?
Lilies lain on your head would let you Assume.

Percival I want to be, to give that Holy Water
to your thirsty lips, and restore your aqua eyes
and that laughter, that can put the pieces back.

The haunters follow us, ever after they claim us.
Maybe that flaming sword could slay them,
but you never had it put into your hand, despite holiness.


I play these strings, hoping to make the notes
your laughter so they will love you too, and forever.
Love you as I have always loved you.

I play these strings, to remember, sunlight warming
your skin and the days in childhood paradises and
feel the radiating warmth again, of a perfect summer.

I play these strings, to resurrect you, so you can follow me
from the underworld or a cell, or a lonely grave, bring you home.
But to play these strings I must look back. Always look back.



Northern Dark

Kristen sits on the bed, only in her briefs, smoking a French cigarette.
The sunrise is weak and watery; it makes her skin marble pale, distant.
The freight train rumbles by, it’s horn the howl of an enraged demon.
She is enraged and numb and distant, only that same demon can hear her howl.

Coffee with her before I go to work, before she leaves for Rochester, gone forever.
She is in her old and stiff leathers, holding her scratched helmet, already gone inside.
There’s nothing holding her here now, and a shared past now ruined pushing her away.
I love her, but she only came for a bed, and someone to hold the sky up a little longer.

I watch her put on her helmet, fire up her motorbike, and speed away, leaving for good.
I watch until she’s out of sight, knowing I didn’t make her go, but I couldn’t make her stay.
The living room/bedroom/den still smells of her exotic cigarettes, homemade, lilac perfume.
I walk to work on campus, heart aching, and hoping she finds peace up in the northern dark.



The righteous young woman, from that haughty sect

that sets themselves apart, dress the women in white robes,

stood their among the cluster of other women in her band,

long golden hair in a ponytail, staring me down with fire

filled grey eyes.

In the ether realm, in the realm beyond the sun and flesh,

she carries a sword all afire in honeyed flame, that she stole

for herself from a bored, disinterested angel more interested

in fucking human woman and shaking down the lonely

with false hope that he would fight for him.

She stares me down, cleansing hellfire in her grey eyes,

knowing me, knowing I am not so different, so good as

I have made them believe or dream I am, and I feel that

sword pierce my heart, and her hate, and it’s flames

burn right through me.

A smirk crosses her thin, pale and unadorned lips as she

leaves me behind, as her cohort of Christians crosses the

street as the light changes and I see the hunger to devour

all the lust and greed and cruelty, that living among her kind,

she knows all too well.

A month later, I would see on the news one Saturday morning,

as I was halfway to despair and elation from a sleepless night,

where Roxy and Sam spoke to me of things hidden in the air,

that she had taken a shotgun and killed all the men in her sect.

“God was away, and someone had to make them pay.”

“I Rightly Turn Away”

Milwaukee skating rink, on a snowy night right before Christmas.

I don’t want to go home to family that are strangers who don’t,

and cannot, are just unwilling to understand what I’m feeling, going through.

I want to stay in this dark place, heated to discomfort, but enveloping,

and the candy lights dancing in shadows, as all these kids, all these young people,

are free and easy, not knowing what is coming for them.

On a stage, a petite brunette, her frayed hair up in a ponytail, closes her eyes,

and sings about how “No boy, I will not love you”, “I rightly turn away”,

the music sharp and electronic, and soft and warm as a new lover’s kisses.

Kids, teenagers, young smart ass punks, poet and dreamers, and death worshippers,

all dancing and holding hands and dreaming of that one true love, or the one that

broke their hearts, or some better sunny future down in Hollywood.

The highs of youth, on free and fearless love, or the stars whispering in your ears,

falls away so quickly, leaving ashes and regrets and need to sleep mornings away.

It is warm hear, and none talks to me, so I won’t feel alone when they will not listen.

I was like these kids once, but death came close, and fear and so much pain.

I cannot end the scars and wreckage, and none of those asshole can reach out honestly.

That petite brunette locks eyes with me, and I smile, and in the dark I see her smile back.

The candied lights and all the pure dreams and all the things I can almost reach in her,

call back another girl, another song, another dream, and a lost and ruined life.

Disgorged Beast

The dumpster being lifted and emptied,
disgorging it’s rancid trash, brackish water
into the garbage truck with clang and smash,
sounding like the cry and roar of ancient beast.

4:30 A.M., the beasts rage wakes me, in my room,
cluttered and disarrayed, to the sickly piss yellow streetlight
shining in from my bedroom window, a mocking sun,
the light of heaven gone and curdled in this world.

On the desk is the words and incantations of poetry,
last ditch hope, that I can make an angel come to me,
with her sword of fire, wings of white, and furious eyes,
or a least a kiss from her so I can fight these ancient beasts,

that roar in the night, hiding in our skins and faces,
in industrial clatter of the waking world, the noose that
is soft and sweet and slow that we welcome it’s grip like
a young and enthusiastic lover, as the ancient beasts command.

I lay in that sickly light, that ancient beast chugging on,
and compose prayers and invitations for that pure angel,
so we can fight and I can be brave and maybe the ancients beasts
won’t have their revenge in the black pool liquid of their bones.

Without Stars

Tartarus, without stars,

as the sky cannot see us,

and the satellites, radio waves,

and even God is blind to us.

They sent us down underground,

without gold for Charon, because

we had no gold in our rundown house

in a bad part of town.

In the dark, the galaxies in her head

dim, with no hope for escape,

for the sun, for the warmth of Elysium

that all those rich assholes enjoy.

We hatch a mad plan; to make love,

birth a star that will grow to be an angel.

Raise up through the rock to world above.

Call down a disinterested Seraphim or Paladin.

Even though it was their kind who brought us here.

No other sword or key.

No other face in the sky.

Nothing but time to sharpen fangs.

Atlantis Guitar

The freight train rumbles by,

as I drive to work, still dark.

I thought about the bad dream,

finding a headless angel in the park.

I sit in my car, time to wait here,

drinking too hot gas station coffee,

listen to that mournful Atlantis guitar,

and try to head bad breath with a toffee.

That headless angel is being put

on the freight train, express to Groom Lake.

Someone might take a picture in Santa Fe,

but no one will be grieving at the wake.

A ghost can’t make a night stand still,

and the one with me, she just plays that song,

that Atlantis guitar, from when she was young,

when she could say in peace there was nothing wrong.