Monthly Archives: June 2019


It’s a summer afternoon, and I find shelter for the night.

Out here I am alone. Out here the stars above are so bright.

A cabin, with a few cans of food and a well, a place to rest.

I am unannounced, but I don’t think the ghosts mind a guest.


I lay on a dusty couch, dream of a lost friend. she was so kind.

I fixate on a calendar in a bed room, a bikini girl with a big behind.

I search for all I can take, and for a scrap of a book, sacred words.

I know the names of the angel of the hour, by songs of singing birds.


I might stay another night, but there’s nothing for anyone here.

I want a lover, or even a friend, who will mourn a passing year.

I want someone who would touch my face, and I want not turn.

I want someone to love, so I don’t just let all that’s left go burn.

A June Morning

French Memorial Park, just as the sun is rising up.

I lay on a plastic slide, last moments of stargazing.

Earbuds in, sorrowful music, hymns and psalms.


Cool and damp, a June morning, trying to heal.

Soft grass and the forested hills, the little creek.

I try to remember before demons ruled the sky.


She used to come here with me. She is long gone.

I will never see her again in this life, I now know.

Is heaven real? Will we meet again, in the light?


The last of the stars are pushed out by the sun.

I still try to feel like I did with her, when I loved.

Hymns and psalms, sorrowful music, can’t call her.

Veronica (Steakhouse)

I don’t know if she still works here.

I know my heart dreams of her, still.

I know the man I want to be, for her.

I fear the world will end; dreams won’t

get to come true, anymore.


The TVs in the lounge show wildfires,

and the march of cruel men, men of God.

Her God is kind, and loves His failed world.

Is her God, the real God, the real creator?

Will our race change, for Him?


Friday night. Will she be here tonight?

I want to touch her face. See her smile.

I want to build a life with her, a future.

A big house we’ll fill with children and pets.

A big house full of dreams.


My heart is starting to fill with love, again.

As the world falls, because empire never ends.

I want to touch her face. Give her a soft kiss.

Will she be here tonight? Will I get another chance?

Will we light the stars before the world burns?


The Lynx

The Lynx is scraggly, unkempt, and thin.

It eyes me wear, angry, curses my real sin.

Behind the bar, against the forest, war to win.


Plain, banal, all brick and glass, we build to build.

As if this was ours alone, as if God had so willed.

The Lynx, fed on garbage, the bags torn and spilled.


The Lynx eyes me. I have taken much by her partaking.

They are sick and shaking, the flood lights hunt breaking.

He is perhaps Nemesis, with blood due and for the taking.


The Lynx turns away, back into brush and half shadows.

The building. The cursed lighting. None of it ever slows.

Ancients things, wild things, lost wherever a human goes.


A young woman. Dark hair and clothes.

A sigh, a clenching fist, past me she goes.

Eyes cast at the ground, by shops in rows.


It’s summer, and the light lingers so long.

I am not myself. I am here. I do not belong.

I try to recall, call back, a comforting song.


Where might an angel come close to us?

What prophecies would they ever discuss?

What sacred words in a leather omnibus?


The young woman, far past, at the boulevard.

What may she find? What may she now discard?

What is a resurrection, without the turtle in the yard?


August 5th

Cold sea mermaids leave there tears on the beach.

To the sad eyed young woman, whom they beseech

to come away into the sea and leave all of it for them,

just walk into the waves, over breakers, just fucking swim.


Kind hands with gentle touch wait out in the dark sea.

Love is given without threat. It is given absolutely free.

We will never strike you down, or demand your whole life.

We will make you a home, better than an angry man’s wife.


Mermaid tears washed up slick and glassy on the shore.

Call the young woman away from the world and the war.

Call them into the mermaids welcoming arms in the ocean.

Come to us, we are tender in our world, quiet in our devotion.



Ghosts of Light

The lights are out in the city.

It is night. It is dark. It is hot.

I float in the pool, stargazing.


Stars fill all of the sky above.

Maybe angels seen in a loss.

Maybe they’ll come down to me.


I am weightless in the water.

I am free to float up to them.

Stars, angels, ghosts of light.


The city is on fire, as we fear.

I shiver. I am almost free, now.

I am taken to the angels above.


I am taken out of this world.

These Dark Hills

The crows fed me, as I stayed at my slain brother’s side, in the dark hills.

Morning and night they would come, as I would not leave my brother’s side.

These dark hills. This dark war. I hear other things in the darkness.


I talked to him. I sang to him. I cried over him.

Waiting for our fellows to come for us and take us home.

Keeping his soul safe from those things in the darkness.


These dark hills. Shadows and unseen things keenly felt.

Not just the mortal soldiers who took my brother’s life.

Things ancient and fetid and that hate all the world.


I stayed at my brother’s side, and prayed, and kept watch.

Waiting for our fellows to come for us and to take us home.

For him to be laid to rest, and assured of his place at His side.


These dark hills. This dark war. All that hunts us in darkness.

I stay by my brother’s side. I’ll keep him whole and clean.

I will watch over him, until our fellows come to take us home.

Fair Queen of The Forest

I do not belong to them, the people of the town.

I do not belong to the God of the Thorny Crown.

I do not belong to their world of puny, dirty lusts.

I do not belong to the light as the barbwire rusts.


I walk into the forests, ancient and quiet and still.

I am the wild things here, and I share their iron will.

I drink from the cool waters, and welcome the rain.

I am without the town’s corruption, it’s libel and stain.


And the Fair Queen From Beneath The Hill welcomes me.

Golden eyes glinting with fire, and such tenderness to see.

She offers me her hand, and she offers me her bread and wine.

She offers me my home; “Drink and eat, and you will be mine.”


And the Fair Queen’s touch is as cool and soothing as the river.

She kisses me on my unshaved cheek, and I sigh and I shiver.

Drink the bread and wine, and I can be free of this shitty world.

All the days of summer and love before me, whole and unfurled.

Gehenna or Eden

It is spring. Still cool in the mornings. Warm days.

She sits in a swing, in a never completed park.

No grass. No paved tracks. No transplanted trees.

Just the little playground.


She thinks she is 17 now. Her birthday is in mid-March.

It might be April by now, though she doesn’t know for certain.

The war came. The fires came. The silence came.

She sits in a swing, and waits for him.


The wind was sewn, and the whirlwinds came a’reaping.

She has been alone for a year. She is always tired. Often hungry.

Her dreams are filled with terrors and wonders.

She wonders if she is a prophet for the remnant.


She knows he is following close behind. Is a wary? Is he waiting?

The silence that came after the fires has been the worst. No human voices.

All the batteries are dead. No way to hear music even.

She longs to speak, and to hear, and to touch.


She sits in the swing, waiting. She remembers her childhood.

She was swaddled and innocent, while the world was burning.

She knew not what was coming, but it came, and it took her too.

She remembered trying to swing as he as she could, laughing.


The boy, has been following her, and she hears him, out of sight.

She has much to fear from an unknown male, but she is lonely.

He is no older than she. Most likely just as tired, and hungry, and lonely.

Adam and Eve in Gehenna instead of Eden.


She looks up. There he is. They lock eyes. She smiles.

He walks to her, unsure, as if he’s afraid of spooking her.

She stays in the swing, and watches him, heart racing.

Will he kiss her cheek, or slit her throat? Is he a friend?


He goes to the swing beside her, and sits down.

It is spring. The morning is cool. Warm days.

The silence is perhaps broken now, voices speaking.

Maybe it’s a crack in all this death, life coming back.