Monthly Archives: July 2018

Beautiful Feeling.

Sitting under the well worn brass statue of Joan of Arc, hoping for her peace and strength and Purity, even as I find myself thinking of eros, of passion, of Stephanie.

Joan heard angels, knew the path, knew what was asked of her. I hear only static and silence, wild spinning into the night, looking for a war I can’t win and never ends.

Most of us aren’t chosen, the angels are chills in the wind, shadows on the street corner. Stephanie fills my heart with hope and fire. Joan never fell in love. I fall love all to easily. Or lust. Double helix of flesh and soul.

These feelings for Stephanie are the light in the darkness, the one beautiful feeling that stays in the fear and hate and mistrust, the children of god with drawn knives and blood on their lips

Holiness and terror, love and falling. I fell from grace. I fell in love. And her kindness and friendship shows me what I can yet be, if Satan doesn’t break me.

Joan was not seen as beautiful; she was seen as holy light. They saw a young woman but not base desire. Her light shined through. It was what touched her rough soldiers hearts.

May I see Stephanie’s light, the innocent joy of a soft touch. May my eyes catch her light. May this grace grow in my stony heart. May I be holy and brave in what is to come.


Boom and Sparkle

Pink and white, her dress.

She saved the whole year.

Our night on the knife edge;

Childhood to what is to come.


Pink and white crepe paper,

Timeless and blank faced moon;

It always comes, fickle magic.

We kiss softly.


After, the beach. Straggler bottle rockets

From July. I set them off. She sits on the

Hood of my car and cheers. Boom and



And after, just us, both on the hood,

Her head on my shoulder, the crashing

Waves, just silence, no thoughts, last

Moment were holding hands is paradise.


I kiss her cheek. She blushes, smiles.

A dream we’ll share, our most sacred

Love making, our one last spell.

In the morning, we will be grown,

And magic will slip away.



Pink and White

I touch her face.

This is the invocation.

Touching her face.


The miserable starlight

Of a disco ball.

Love ballad reverb, soothing.


We close our eyes, softly kiss.

The spell cast, come to fruition.

Innocent hearts tempt hell.


We continue to dance.

A disco ball is not the moon.

Strawberry punch is not sacramental.


We look into each other’s eyes.

Fake moon made real by our grace.

Dazzled, the spell broke the seal.





Mermaid Tears

Mermaid tears on shore, blue and smooth in the sand.

A good Christian has no use for a wedding band.


The breakers are shadows in late fall sunset, I almost see her there.

The tail above grey waves, her dark locks selfless in despair.


I pick up a tear in my hand, knowing now I am blessed to tend the light alone.

The weight of lust crushes the heart, makes it all bitterness and bone.


The tear is all that’s left of August, last day before school, perfect afternoon.

I asked for love, and she gave me grace, a delicate and slowly maturing boon.


I Remember Summer

I remember summer. I dream of it at night.

In the milk white moonlight through the window, I look at the bikini girl poster that hangs on the wall.

Blonde and lithe and beautiful, she frolics in crystal clear waves.

Her bikini is stainless and radiant white, like the ashen snows of this nuclear winter.

Her eyes are as infinite and blue as the skies we sacrificed.

In my dreams I am with her in that tropic paradise, with the sun still bright, and love still offering hope instead of the pain of loss.

We are Adam and Eve before the fall. Morning, not mourning, of creation.

All that lush and emerald green life, all the clean water, all that open and clear sky.

And a lover, someone there, and a world to build a future in.

I always awaken in the musty old farmhouse, in the bitter cold, curled into a ball in my sleeping bag.

No one here, all dead. The radiation slowly poisoning me so that I soon join them. The sky a blasted cataract. All other life grey and ruined.

What is there for hope but dreams? And the hope that when I die, I dream forever?

Breath In The Green

I know the roots and vines and blossoming flowers have absorbed your body into the damp and verdant earth.

The cool creeks and rivers have washed away every sin and sorrow, and the insects and animals sin eaters releasing you from corruption.

The rains are the tears an all too human but all too distant God weeps for his lost child, filling these hills with coldness.

And you become seed that falls from the flower, the seed you never planted in yourself, and the emerald leaf hungry for the sun.

All remains drawn back to the earth and the life risen from it, as the spirit is freed, and still knows not its name.

I walk in the forest, in the cool and damp spring, feeling all you’ve left behind, all that is you breath in the green.

Hazy Stars

Nashville seems like an escape from here. Maybe LA before winter.

The old Yamaha motorbike gassed up. Everything in her backpack.

Early April night. Misty and cool. Hazy stars hang low.

It’s now or never.

She gets on behind me. Hold tight. One headlamp cuts the dark.

Out of the mountains. First steps to the sea. Towards a desperate hope.

Outside Nashville. Cheap motel. She says we’re as good as married.

Fast food sausage biscuits. Sickly sweet tea. We are one flesh.

It’s a hope of star light and defiance. Together, what ever comes.



Her heart is wild and has fast, desperate beat, like a song bird.

Hollow bones give her the wind, and her song carries from the air.

Song calling into the morning, a tremolo rhythm of resigned hope.

I want to answer her song with my words.

I want to hold her in the palm of my hand.

Finest Gold

My head is in her lap, as she strokes my hair. She tells of places that never were. Of kingdoms pure and right.

In an open field, a pittance of stars, so little light to call down the angels, or make them real with hope.

She bends down and kisses my head, anointing me with her tenderness, choosing me as her angel.

What flecks of light remain in the blown out darkness, we spin into fine gold to weave a better dream.

And her kisses are the finest gold of all.

Late, After The Show

Late night, leaving the show, ears ringing and hearts full, as we ride on my Vespa down empty downtown streets.

Her helmet touches mine, and her arms wrapped tight around me, her body against mine, trusting I’ll keep her safe and get her home.


The night is radiating a softer warmth as the heat of day fades away, and the wary animals cursed to be nocturnal watches us with glassy and shining eyes.

As we wind the streets of The Fort to our apartment, ghosts entwine with the remnants of those beloved songs, melancholy mixing with dread.


Walking hand in hand up the stairs of the complex, I lead the way, a single star up in the sky, were a million years ago we ruled the galaxy.

Inside, our apartment, our home. Ramshackle spells protect the door. The demons are every hungry for us, for all flesh. King and queens are still the subjects of fate.