Monthly Archives: October 2017

White Lilies

We lay the coffin down into the grave carefully,

like a mother lowers her child from her hip.

A bright sunny day, in the heat of summer,

but I feel a coldness in my chest.

Found abandoned on the side of a country road,

tossed aside like an empty beer can out the window.

Why did they do all they did to you? Why did you suffer?

Who are you, my child? Lost and unclaimed. Happens too much.

We don’t know your name. We don’t know who loved you.

But we love you know. We’ll watch over you. Not rest.

My child, the priest is here, and we who fight for you.

May God welcome you. May He wipe away your tears.

I lay flowers on your marker, pretty lilies, white and soft.

We are men, and we are weeping. Why did they do this to you?

The sun is bright. The day is hot. But darkness lurks here.

I’ll fight for you. Not rest. Whoever loved you, we love you now.


The Stars Pulling Off Their Masks

Smoking? When did I start smoking again?
Filterless Camels like before, one after another,
futile against stress, nerves and dead AM Channel static.
I realize I’m sitting alone again, looking down on the city,
waiting for it to beautiful in it’s distant, golden lights
as the sun goes down, and there another one in my fingers.
I don’t remember buying them. I don’t remember picking the habit
up again after all this time, and I don’t even remember driving here,
but here I am again, after work, not wanting to go home.
I sit on my car’s hood, windows down, an enveloping synthpop love song
playing, wrapping me in warmth and peace, like being hugged tightly
by a plump and soft woman, one who loves you dearly.
I stare out into the city lights coming up, the stars pulling off their masks,
and, as I work my way through the pack of smokes, dream of her,
the earth goddess, the one who plucks the strings of devotion, thrumming light.
The song plays on repeat. It is the first of autumn, and it’s growing chilly,
almost bitter as the sun fades away, but the cold is calming, peaceful,
reminds me of something lost, when all was well.
I cannot keep the Bad Thoughts away forever, not with the city lights,
the stars showing me their faces, or the beautiful, embracing love song.
The come again and again, and maybe the stress is why I forget so much.
One last cigarette, and then I’ll have to face the room without treasures,
the thoughts that intrude like a rude neighbor couple screaming at each other
at 3 AM, hating each other, unable to leave and unable to stop.
I try to hold onto her, and the music, and all the sweet and innocent things
that slip away from me, harder and harder to call back all the time.
I try to imagine kissing her, warm and pale lips. I try to imagine being full of love,
Like her.

Summer Sumner

I walked all the way to this cemetery, from my house by the river.

It’s the first of Autumn, and the chill has finally come, and rusting colors.

My beat up Walkman still holding on, with those soft, winsome tunes.

Lose myself in that music, in the quiet of the dead, of the coming cold.

I sit by a statue, Jesus and the woman at the well, smoking French cigarettes,

dreaming of the older girl who bought them for me, first girl to call me cute.

Those lovelorn songs, and the gold and red of Autumn, so easy to dream of love.

She mocks me for liking King, so I read Steinbeck for her, to try to please her.

My heart races, thinking of her face, and her husky and harshly caring voice.

I dream of us sitting by this brick facsimile well, smoking French cigarettes she likes.

We could talk down the sun, and hold hands, and maybe we could kiss some too.

Among the dead, flowers still bloom in April, and I still hope for her as winter comes.


Eerie music plays on the radio.
It tells me what I cannot know.
All the treasures sold off, nothing to show.

Thinnest cut of the sunrise.
How frayed my kindly ties.
I cannot even dream a surprise.

Unsweet tea, a heart pricked pin
Early, before motors and vocal din.
Tatiana is dark, true light, not blonde Gwen

A morning ritual holds tight to me
A bought miracle can be sold for free.
Beauty and warmth, wither destiny.

I know I am a fool, do it anyway.
The stars blink out as they quietly pray.
The sun is coming, holding time in it’s sway.

Edge of the Pool, Drying Her Hair

She sits there, my friend, on the edge of the pool.

Still wet from swimming, her black, low back one piece glistening.

Her long, red hair, usually bright and frizzy, is dark, tamed.

I watch her, looking at her mostly bare back, the ridges and valleys,

the mountains that shift and become taut as she moves her arm,

drying her hair with a bright, red towel.

Even after having been in the water, I bet her skin is warm.

Even after the hours of chlorine, I bet her skin is smooth.

Even after all the time in the sun, I do not go into the water.

She turns her head, getting all the strands of her long hair,

and she sees me, in my black jeans and long sleeves, and she smiles,

and I smile back, and know her gaze is fleeting.

I get up, and order another soda from the concession stand, as she

goes to the women’s locker room to change, and I’ll drive her home

and then she’ll go out have a good time, while I look out, only dreaming, watching.

Goddess Gives Me Sleep

Long, black hair, and buxom.
Tight teal tank top, strained.
Cut off shorts, frayed, worn.
The S shape, the ample flesh,
warm and soothing, absorbing,
the softest sanctuary in this Eden.
It’s an Indian Summer, a reprise,
and she is the Goddess of Summer,
and of Sleep, as Samhain comesĀ  now.
She leads me by the hand, up stairs,
turning back, smiling, ass scissoring
under that tight and worn denim.
The best part, all that can be is now,
in this moment, before She Sleeps,
and the spirits return to us, one night.
Naked, she is on top, kissing me,
her warm breasts flat against me,
holding me down, to be absorbed.
She is the Big Spoon, holding me in.
Samhain comes soon, and the lost come,
to the orange bonfires, to chill of this life.
Her flesh enveloping me, making me whole,
mounds of her breasts, pooch of her tummy,
warm and safe, as Samhain, and winter comes.
She is the Goddess that gives me Sleep………

Happy Birthday

It’s almost spring, a chill in the air,
but the sky is bright again,
and the first buds are on the trees.
It’s my birthday.
I ride my bicycle by the canals.
I’m going to my friends house.
She has a present forĀ  me.
It’s my birthday.
She’ll wrap it in pretty paper.
She’ll wrap it in a big, red bow.
The present chosen with care.
It’s my birthday.
She’ll be waiting for me.
She’ll be smiles and love.
She’ll wear that teal dress.
It’s my birthday.
And we’ll share a cupcake.
Sit and watch tulips sway.
We’ll talk, enjoy each other’s company.
It’s my birthday.
It’ll be a perfect day.

Emptiness In The Stars

The woman wore dirty, low top sneakers.
And old style. Falling apart. Frayed Laces.
She propped her feet up on the dashboard.
She looked out the window. I didn’t try to talk.
A Bible thumping station played on the radio.
They said The Rapture was coming; Their Revenge.
The Rockies started to raise over the arid plains.
The woman said her father landed at Mt. Shasta.
The woman said she felt an emptiness in the stars.
Bailey Colorado, I drop her off. Says her father’s here.
She says the emptiness, the ache will end now forever.
We’re all looking for The Rapture, Going Home, Our Revenge.

My Lover Has A Serpent’s Kiss

Bad dreams. Always bad dreams. Frantic. Exhausting.
I sit outside. Smoke a cigarette. Wait for Armageddon.

Nuclear silos nearby. Word could come. Arrogant fire.
Give an ape a match and he’ll always burn the jungle down.


My lover is still sleeping. She says The Fey will come for us.
We’ll live underground and be young forever and not burn.

My lover, while we were drinking, showed me the scar.
Scar on her belly. The aliens caesarianed her hybrid baby.


Fire. Nuclear fire. Big atomic blaze in the sky. Keeps us warm.
Fire. Nuclear fire. We flicked the flint on the sun. Burn ourselves.

The sun keeps it’s distance out of love. It’s generosity could ruin.
We bring it here. We make it here. Stupid, hate filled apes.


My lover calls a name in her sleep. His name. The one before.
The Fey feel distant. Like the heart I spray painted on Pluto.

My lover has a serpent’s kiss. The sweet venom gives visions.
I was beyond all space and time. And then I came down forever.


The sun. The Bomb. The Fey who might come through on a dare.
What was a kiss in the sky ends us with a fist on the earth.

My lover reads my thoughts, when the reels runs out on her dreams.
An intimate invasion. I saved that one word for my True Spirit:


Sea and Sky, One

French model. French cigarettes.

The sea before her. Dim blue morning.

The smoke. Her dark hair. Whipped about.

Cold sea wind. Cold morning. Warm dreams.

Soft gold. I take pictures. She is regal.

Grace. Latest fashions. Some without.

Flesh is gold. Gold I buy magic.

I buy a spell on glossy paper.

She is an eclipsed sun. Silver morning.

Golden night. Bright around the shadows.

Her eyes are distant. Distant as an angel.

She was born of an angel who loved a man.

Night is falling. Stars come out.

Blue sky’s tide is rolling out.

The moon kisses her. Only pure kiss.

I pack up film and camera. She watches the sea.

French model. French cigarettes.

The sea before her. Sea and sky, one.

The smoke. Her dark hair. Whipped about.

Cold sea wind. Cold night. What are these dreams?