Monthly Archives: April 2018

Invitation of the Stars

I was a thin, fierce and angry young man, grown flabby, grey and distantly ambivalent in middle age.

Like a ghost I’ve floated on the edges, as my friends have moved on; marriages, divorces, grown children.

I haunt bars, restless, flirting with waitresses young enough to be my daughters, tired beyond their years.

A ghost welcomed but unknown, wanting excitement, watching games as the seasons change.

There’s a world out there, and love, but the dull and soothing ache of what’s known keeps me here.

Love is somewhere else, as is the mission that will save my soul, in the wild sky and the invitation of the stars.

The Nectar of a Dream

Krysten sat on the edge of the swimming pool, in her blue and white swimsuit, long dark hair loose and free.

She smiled mischievously, a flash in her bright eyes, as if I were her boyfriend, these pictures just for us.

A rich friend of her’s place, a Saturday he was away, modeling shots for Grand Tetons’ calendar girl contest.

She sold the desire and connection, splashing her feet in the water, lounging on the diving board, come hither looks.

I captured it, the industrious bee, collecting the pollen of the moment, the nectar of a dream.

And it blossomed, bright and colorful in the sun, in the flower of artifice, the illusion of something true.

The summer afternoon fading, a storm darkening the blue sky, I told her her photos would be ready Tuesday.

She smiled, put on t-shirt and shorts over her swimsuit, cheap flip flops on her thin, pale feet.

Then I watched her go, another impossible crush, another star whose light was bright, but gave no warmth.

I packed my gear in the car, sat in the driver’s seat, listening to music sung in an Enochian tongue, and dream of her.








Knick Knack

A simple and silly knick knack;

A porcelain mermaid lamp,

Aqua blue and white, her serene,

Holding a golden shell in her hand.


In this dark apartment,

Waiting to sleep, pass a grey day,

The light through little holes in her

Tail, casting brass scales up above.


This simple thing, remembers her,

And the weekend in Florida, the beach,

Blue and white swimsuit, black hair,

And what we thought was a beginning.


A gift, a mermaid, us caught between

Worlds, land and sea, hope and earth.

It shines, sweet and pretty in the dark,

A shard of Eden still glowing, aching.

Rust Bucket

The car was a wheeless ruin in the desert night, a tiny little thing swallowed by the starry sky.

Black paint faded and eaten through with rust, it’s mighty engine silent and dry, powerless.

The young girl sat in the driver’s seat, looked through the broken out windshield to the black horizon.

She smiled. She’d be Eden by morning, with Eve Mother, and all the light and wonders that had abandoned her.

By morning this would all be over, and no one would ever hurt again.

Street Fighting

The angel had no time to rest, the one room, the one soul, cleared and then one to the one next door.

Rooms and buildings and the streets where the battles ran and ran never ending.

One room and soul fought for and then onto the next one, spiritual attrition, their fate to fight until His Return.

The blood and ruin the demons had left everywhere, the shattered rooms and torments that happened there,

How much more would there be?

Just a moment to look at the Fountain of Laughing Children, before the next room and soul to fight for.

And there was one lost girl, one broken child he adores, that fights hardest for, that he wants to heal,

To baptize in the waters of the Fountain of Laughing Children, so she can be an innocent again.

I hope in an endless war.



Kissed By Supernova

Bethany, my nickname for my beloved car, could be a space ship tonight, as unreasonable snow falls, like hyperdrive on the windshield and headlights.

Bethany and me could leave this town for the horrors and the miracles of the deep world, strange blue suns, the kisses of supernova, and all the races of beings seeded by the tossed hand of God.

Me and Bethany could leave home for these wonders, and escape the war and paranoia and divided heart, the not knowing of who is true, or if I am true, and all the friends I fear.

Bethany could make it to the center of the galaxy, the pits of the black hole we all turn on a hub around, and she could drive me back to the place that welcomes me, but is so uncertain.

The light turns green; which way do I choose?

The radio had ghostly voices waking me, after I left it on, finally collapsing, desperate for a human voice.

I saw no people out in these woods, no distant lights, or smoke curling up from a far off chimney, no cries or shouts or laughter out past the treeline.

I heard the ghostly voices, heard strongest a young woman singing, wavering and sorrowful, a hymn calling for God to come close us again, in this night.

My heart ached for the beauty of her song, and the lament within it. The nights always seem eternal, and God so distant since the war came, since we fell.

The young woman’s voice faded out, and it all became a swirling of lamenting voices, a whirlpool of cries into the wilderness, the endless void.

I fell asleep, and saw heartbreaking visions of what could have been, had we gone another way.


Silver Cords

The hill of dirt, loose shale, and ragged weeds above my small, suburban house makes a pauper’s throne looking east, to the rising sun.

A lukewarm bottle of red wine I’ve been nursing all night, watching the skies, looking for the missiles or UFOs or angels that will come end it all.

In the half light of earliest sunrise, I wonder if I’ll see the souls of the pure remnant rising to the sky like silver cords, or the silk sails of newborn spiders.

I feel the cold in this early spring, and the chill tells me judgement is coming, the blooms will turn their heads and open in the world, bless Persephone.

Watching the skies, drinking down my fear and hatred, as early spring is just an endless winter, Demeter fucked right off in disgust, back turned to insure doom.

I hold close to a fading memory, of a sweet afternoon, a pretty girl, my first kiss, the last hurrah for innocence, before I became just another demon earning wrath for Earth.

I hope Katie is and uncut silver cord rising to the sky, safe and warm as whichever demon comes for us.

I hope she did not fall.



Championship Year

The winter is fading, and I sit in the stands watching a softball game, the home team winning.

The sunlight lasts longer, the new season going, young and brave women, their worlds just beginning.


This spring really feels different, that someone will take my hand, that I’ll have love when winter comes.


And my team claims victory, and we all cheer, and as life begins anew, hope is what the season becomes.


Young women laughing and embracing, and there’s talk of a championship run, of this being the big year.


I raise my voice for them, and for hope, in the mad and disjointed life I’ve learned to hold so dear.

The Night Guard

The old night guard, wizened and grey, stood watch up in the tower, leaning heavily on his gnarled walking stick, scanning the horizon for whatever mat come.


I offered him a cup of piping hot coffee on this cool, early spring night, the chill not yet gone from winter. He smiled, a warmth in his eyes, a warmth I lived for.


He would pass the long nights grumbling about the king, about the cold, or telling ribald jokes, or speaking of the fair maidens he saw at market.


But I wanted to know of this man who fought in wars and who had many trying times and who I sometimes heard told off wild and reckless exploits as a young man.


But always, he looked into the horizon, telling the same jokes, making the same complaints, saying only things that said nothing.


But I loved him, and all he’d done and given me, making me one of his own, making me his son, and I never at all doubted his love for me.


So, every watch I brought him his hot coffee, told him of the world beyond our walls from the word I heard from travelers, and listened happily to him.


The nights where long, but starlight was made just for fathers to be truly seen, and to illuminate their tales, and to show the warmth in their eyes their sons longed for.