Monthly Archives: December 2018

I Dream of Indiana

I dream of Indiana, because of a woman.

I dream of Indiana, too dream of something.

Cold and grey days, colorless at noon today,

I dream of her, and how we know the score.


Some rural town, like the one I’m in now,

with mustard yellow silos pricking the sky

and a smattering of houses in the dead fields,

and the ubiquitous chain stores in town.


I dream that in a place even drabber, colder,

than the place I am now, just as empty, burning,

as left behind and sighing, that with her there,

I could be happy, content, settled.


Years ago, when we were young, we partied

and we knew heartbreak and loss and hope

and magic in the sung words, the right note

of a tragic and sorrowful song.


We knew the promise of April and spring

and the soft and warm sunshine through a

classroom window, the joy of connecting,

as we smoked cigarettes at shitty parties.


And know, older and greyer and fatter, left behind,

I dream of her and that grey prairie state, of finding

her and beginning again, recapturing something my

broken mind and scorched heart has lost.


I dream of Indiana because of a woman.

I dream of Indiana to dream of something.

Fools errand. Our moment has passed forever.

But I dream to escape the terror of silence.


The terror of my own thoughts.

Mermaid Blood

They joked, at the Olympics, that she should be checked for mermaid blood.

She flows through the water like the sirens of lore, as easily as one born to it.

She flows with grace and purity, a dream sharpened in harshness and blood.


On land, in her tracksuit and gold medals, smiling for cameras, waving to fans,

she speaks of God and Jesus’ grace and redemptions and salvations, and though

I believe, I turn my face away, pull away admiration, because she might hurt me.


The child of God may hurt one of His unwanted children, one like me, scattered

like ashes in the wind, like starlight into empty eternity, dreams never sharpened.

If she didn’t hold the gun, she’d sell me into the hand of the one who always does.


Rich and safe and easily holding the hand of iron and pride, so easily walking the path

that was made for the pale and powerful, she’d turn on me, destroy me, deny me.

Gatekeeper of paradise that thinks the controls the turning swords or the burning blade.


And so I fear one who should be my sister, my own kind, my own kin among the stars.

I watch her, primal and pure in those crystal clear waters, as easy as one born to it.

But I’d never look her in the eye, say her name, for she holds the blade to my throat.

Sinner’s One Tether

There is no snow this early morning, only frozen rain, mud, and black, dead leaves.

There is a church, haloed by a streetlight, but I don’t know what kind of man believes.

A cigarette before it all starts, and there are so many holes from ashes on my sleeves.

A cat watches warily from the church, but the lost are not given pardons or reprieves.


The world wakes, but angels are high on speed and work long hours, holding it together.

Thankless and tiring, they wish for Elysium fields, sweet scents of bright, yellow heather.

I perversely find comfort in this dark bitterness, hard edged decadence of a bitter ether.

Cigarette smoke soothes me, but I burn Elysium with each breath, the sinner’s one tether.


No one here notices the fires in Bethlehem, tears answered in Golgotha every new year.

Out here, I don’t know, we say powerful words with no faith, got to the fridge, get a beer.

Once a young woman touched my faces, drew God’s true name from me, without a fear.

An angel, I was unaware, that touch serves them too, nourishes both us, makes all clear.

Therefore Frail

The museum was made up for Christmas, with white lace and white, sparkling lights and bows and wreaths and the giant, glowing star above the grand staircase.

The lights were still on, even as it was all burning, even the air itself catching flame, and the two lovers wanted one last dance.

Two young lovers, among the Satanism and the grace of all the creatures of the world, the history of life and all the great extinctions.

A sentimental and reverbing love ballad, a cocoon of sound like God embracing them, as they hold each other close and sway.

Human, therefore frail, and stronger than angels.

The fires consume all that ever was. It was our destiny from the eating of the apple. Freedom means all must end.

It is all bright and all white, among the two lovers holding tight to one another, here with everything that ever was.

This grace even in loss, love made lights in the darkness of the world, and they will all be stars in the sky, so if anyone else comes along they can see we were here.

The two lovers kiss, and as the air catches fire in their lungs, and their flush is made cinders, love stays, and they become lights in the night.

Human, therefore frail, and stronger than angels.

Revelations, Her Voice

I lay on the bed, her to my side, in her underwear and tank top, hair hanging loose and ragged from the day, a bible open in her hands.

She reads to me from Revelation, of all the damnations we brought upon ourselves.

Dire prophecies are bring their judgement from human evil. Brought to pass by unheeded warnings. Human don’t listen or change.

The Red Dragon knows his marks exceptionally well.

The stars whipped down from the sky. The water turned to wormwood. The death we beg for that will not come.

Even in hearing those terrors, there is intimacy in being read too.

Her voice is that of angel showing the way. Maybe a handful of us will take heed and change. Even leave manna for the tribulation saints.

I lose myself in her voice and the words of what is to come. I lose myself in her.


Blue and Underwater

Love song, sounding blue and underwater, as I lay in the dark with my cheap jack but plenty good enough headphones on, trying to lose myself in better and true and oh so beautiful things.

Love. Tenderness. The trust of putting your beaten and dirty heart in another’s hands, to hold close or drop to the dirt, or to eat like candy.

Not in love, or lust, maybe hope, and as always, absolute foolishness. I try to think of love and of a sweet young woman, of all the good parts without the demons between our legs.

The song is soft, and I can imagine a lover’s heartbeat in the bassline, in the steady and tempered kick drum, the high talking snare. I can imagine something better in such poetic words written and sung by cretinous men.

I try to make a dream, of something uncontrolled by demons of sex, or possessiveness, just tenderness and trust. Just a touch of a guileless hand. Of something written into our bones that flesh cannot speak or spoil.

I try to be better, and not so fucking human.

Lights, Lights, Lights

High above the scraped out and bone cold desert she stands,

as faint, dainty and as moved by breath as spider webs,

she watches the lights, lights, lights mopping up the blood.


After all was taken, all the knives writing blasphemies upon her,

all the way to her bones, to the marrow that was black, spongy

scripture to turn the tide, she was wrapped in white cloth without spices.


She stands on the hill, still carrying those carved blasphemies, those unkind

spells, but the lights, lights, lights are mopping up the blood, and the blasphemies

become red like His words, and something is regained from The Pit.


What choice can be perfect when all can chose? What grace that doesn’t hang

the prophet and turn the sea to wormwood, as prayers hold us close in days and

nights burning, but not it putting out the sparks lined up like forks on the bar.


She stands on the hill, and she disassociates from flesh and earth and that haughty

sea, and it hurts but it throbs hot, as the lights, lights, lights mop up the blood, and

an angel tends to her body, the spice and oils to make her ready for the resurrection.


The desert is scraped and bone cold, predawn no reptiles sit upon their high thrones,

but scavengers make a meal of bones, dried tendons that are nooses for the prophets.

She will be in glory, the blasphemies filled in with blood, and covered over in gold.




Ice Dance

The women, a young dark haired Russian, glides over the ice.

Her hairs hangs down and in loops and braids, white sparkles.

A elegant, midnight blue and slight costume makes her a fae.


She is free, spinning and dancing, momentarily floating above.

She is free, of weight, of breath, of all that comes from our flesh.

She is free, a fae beguiling all who watch, all who love her now.


I watch her, and I am lifted too, from my angry mind and hate.

Fae child I fall in love with, grace and pride that comes from blood.

I watch her, and as she spins circles of light, I forget myself.




It was still and dark and cold. She sat beneath the harsh glow of the porch light. She pulled the parka tighter around herself, feeling vulnerable. It was almost Christmas.

Venus was starting to rise in the sky. The morning star was brought by goddess of desire. She felt the stirrings of love, and, she hoped, nothing more. Nothing more inside her.

A smoke before bed. He was in her bed. After making love, she’d written and incantation of the dream she was awake in. Love had come, but would it stay. No one ever stayed.

The hot smoke was harsh in her throat, burned her lungs. That was the sweetness of it. Soon she would sleep, be close to him so he’d give her peace as she dreamed under the sun.

It was almost Christmas. Tired houses in bright lights. The mouthed words of hope as it all burned. God became a helpless child, but it amounted to nothing, as humans were still the same.

At night was the closest one could get to God, if they wrote incantations and poems and dreamed while the bullshit slept. He’d come close, if you dared to open to the whispered voices.

Venus was over the horizon, announcing the day, Lucifer’s domain. Venus and Lucifer. Lust and pride. Lust could at least be a lead ball made into a golden crown. Pride was only death.

She put out her cigarette. The sun was coming. Her man was sleeping. The magic she’d long sought. Touch and affection. What incantations would her stories be with him here now.

Would they be the same when he left like everyone else?

Binary Stars

Ella stood on the corner, waiting for the WALK light. She must feel safe for the moment, for the hood of her puffy black parka has it’s faux fur lined hood down. It always comes up when she is afraid.

I watch the cold wind whip her wild and frizzy black curls, like tendrils climbing towards the too bright light of the street light above her head, things lost in the night that are starved for luminescence.

Binary stars, she said once. We are binary stars. Watching a space documentary about stars stuck in mutual orbit. We spin and circle around each other, never able to let go, to leave the other. Bound forever.

Or like another kind of binary star, one who has collapsed into a singularity, a black hole. Draining the light from the other. One of us is almost always in singularity, sucking the light from the other.

There is a smattering of flurries, glittering in the too bright street light, white on white. Some fall in Ella’s dark, dark hair, and are white petals for a moment before melting away.

Her parka keeps the flurries, those glittering jewels. Part of the magic. She said she has a friend who is a real magician that put a spell of protection on it, like armor from one of those old Dungeons and Dragons games.

The hood, with it’s caramel latte colored faux fur lining, is down, which means she feel safe in the moment. She must believe in the spell. I want to believe in the spell. The hood is down, meaning she feels safe.

I walk beside her, take her gloved hand into mine. On this dirty street with it’s piles of black snow, and squat and ugly red brick buildings, at the end of a bitter, bitter year for us and the world, things seem alright.

Binary stars, spinning away into the night, as the WALK sign comes on. We walk hand in hand, never free of the other, bound forever in the night and the cold and in the sky. No singularity sucks us away tonight.