Monthly Archives: October 2018

Always Halloween

Always Halloween here,
the night is dark
and the moon lights our fear.
Leaves crunch under our feet
as we walk home
with bags full of candy treats.
We can be anything at night,
masks of wolves and vampires,
dancing around bonfires bright.
Down by the graveyard now,
where spirits linger in the cold;
take us by the hand, this is how!
And the howls in the darkness
and the laughter in the shadows,
the graves and their emptiness!
Make it home with our loot,
chocolate and caramels
and lemon drops to boot!
We get ready for bed
as the wind howls and curses
and blows nightmares in our heads.
When we wake, shed not tear,
it all starts again tomorrow;
it’s always Halloween here!


Suns Are Halos

I might drive in my little blue car to Vancouver. The forests and the rain and the thin smoky mist would feel like home.

Or maybe Nova Scotia, the harsh soil and the grey Atlantic where the mermaids shed their tears.

Just start new somewhere where I am stranger, and I can be brave and holy and bright again.

Someplace by the sea, where the ancient mermaids sing in the night, tantalizing voices in the dark.

Someplace where I can see them past the breakers in the morning, the weak January suns still giving them halos.

Someplace where I can be something more than I’ve been, where day they’ll come to shore and touch my face.


Barely any fall, gone straight to winter.

I close my hand on nothing, medal I sent her.

St. Joan, brave and faithful, to the very end.

I wonder if there’s some of that to lend.


I think of an old lover, a chill April morn.

I think of a pretty model, her picture torn

From a fashion magazine, to gain her power.

I think of the magic my fear let go sour.


A train to Charlotte, God knows what to.

Her tattered hoodie was a midnight blue.

St. Joan, I want your surety and soft grace.

In heaven you will touch my weeping face.



Angelic Few

I ride my candy apple red Vespa into downtown, on a cold Sunday morning, just as the sun is rising.

The chill through my clothes, the silence and the light give to the angelic few is sweet and always surprising.

A mission to escape my room, let the cold and the space and movement break up my thoughts and emptiness.

The skyscrapers and old churches and gentrified restaurants are even more impersonal when isolated.

I hold onto to one ember, one warm thought, in a winter that promises to take the last hope that I am not alone.

It was good, but she turned away, and I don’t know what I did. Somehow I’m not who I thought I was.

Radiating in the universe falling to heat death that is my mind, is her face, her soft words, the grazing of her fingers on my hand.

The big bank towers loom over me on Gay St., the newest skin of unslain dragons, basilisk teeth still poisoning our skin.

I drive on, thinking I have to turn back home, just short drives to nowhere anymore, for it’s all the same everywhere.

Cold Night

The demon walks after me. I do not even run anymore.

I shiver in the cold, wet night. My feet are raw and sore.

I came out to mountains to escape, but I was found.

The silence in this night, in this dark, is worse than any sound.

I was chosen by him, he marked me as a child.

What is it in naive innocence, that a demon is so beguiled?

The stars fill up the sky, but they do not see us down here.

The demons has hounded me, taken all that is dear.

I feel his cold hand on my shoulder, and I fall to my knees.

I look up at the stars, smell damp earth, as I’m take beyond the trees.

North Star

What came in the night, my love, that you left our bed and left my side, to sit out on our little concrete porch, staring at the north star, a lit cigarette in your fingers that ignore and let burn to nothing.

The front door open, I see you through the screen door, a dim shadow against the stars and the lights of the city in the distance, and you mutter and curse, in a trance, fighting a demon.

Can I not comfort you, soothe you, give you rest in my arms? Won’t you cling to me in these dark times? Won’t turn to me in your torment? Is the war not over? Is your soul no longer bound to mine?

I watch, hurting as you rage at things I cannot see or understand. Come to me. Come to bed. Make love to me if that will give you release. I’ll stay awake until dawn, if you just want someone near.

You flick away the cashed cigarette, and become still, then sing under your breath, a sad song, a distant mother’s lullaby. I go back to bed, this ceremony too private for even me to witness.

You don’t back at all, until morning.

Bittersweet Quests

Fantasy, that has the remembrance of childhood.

Musty and dim used bookstore, fantasy epics with Michael Whelan covers.

Tales of princesses and faithful knights, and the bittersweet quests.

Dragons and demons could be vanquished forever by faith.

The Grail made us whole again, and immortal in Eden.

It seems so long ago, as the world falls, as dragons swallow the sun.

Hoping for a quest, hoping for a princess’s love, seems foolish.

Will we sip from The Grail, will the dragon fall away, is the war eternal.

A quest to the north, to the wild places, and what remains of grace there.

Hand in hand, we’ll fight or be slain, lost or regained.

How Easy It Was

I’m going south to Galveston, to watch the end of the world, the fires coming out of the sea and the black storms roar down from the sky.

There is to be no Rapture; the holy rollers will suffer just the same as us.

On those once prime beaches I will look to those churning tempests to swallow and the infernal torment of hope.

There will be no pretty girls and sultry times come summer, only stone and black glass.

We can’t change are natures, and so Satan takes his prize of corrupting the world, laughing at how fucking easy it was.

Young love is no more on these beaches, no sweetness in another summer.

It’s all gone.

Song after Song

Sad music from my phone to earbuds, a small glass full of brown liquor on the rocks, a weight I can’t put into words.

Song after song, as I look out the window at the winter stars, waiting for droning insects to see to the morning birds.

I dream of love, of that red haired woman in the pink and white hoodie, the silky ends of her hair spilling from her hood.

Out of a chance encounter I make a world, the flaming sword in my hand, us king and queen of a haunted and dark wood.

And as those morning birds finally arrive, as the sirens are at their cruelest tenderness, I dream of us in an embrace.

Our eyes meeting and the sky being kind in its omnipotence, and the stars remade as angels, as she touches my face.


Feast of friends I once wanted, the raucous party and wild times, merrymaking in an August night.

But at this lonely hour, in this room, I want a friend, a witness, a love and dream beyond all words.

Just us in the hours of the night, fighting against the demons, the fear, and knowing each other’s hearts.