Monthly Archives: August 2019


Gwen I see in the lab, intent and focused, lost in thought.

I don’t talk to her, while I go about work, keep my head down.

That strawberry hand santizer can’t be escaped though,

and it makes me think of her skin, of her touching me.


Don’t look her in the eye, just go on, keep out of sight.

I hear her singing quietly, some sappy and popular ballad.

I think of her loving me, of us riding off into the sunset.

But I’m just a tech, and she’s going places, has a future.


I don’t steal glances, don’t look at the sun, too much light.

She is writing, pipetting, mixing in the incubator, doing it.

I just do my nothing busy work, unable to chase away

all thoughts, all the desire, all the hope I have for her.


She leaves, surprises me by saying goodbye.

I look, smile, tell her goodnight and be safe.

She smiles and walks out into the lab, the night.

I can breath easy, let the monsters slip out.


She can’t see any of it now.






Gummi Bears

Holding mama’s hand.

Gummi bears for being good.

Sweet treat in the bright sun.

She ruffled my hair.

Gave me a smile.


Cold winter night.

Outside, on the stoop.

Nowhere to go.

Tears half frozen salt rivers.

Heart broken.


A bag of gummi bears.

Sweet treat to soothe me.

Remind me of being loved.

Of being wanted.

Of the comfort of mother.

A Morning In January

You can only say fuck you for so long,
before the wear and age of your song
changes to grey whispers and long nights
and the scars heal on those age old slights.
Still in knots where I see her somewhere,
and I suppose there’s a part that still cares.
Years pass and you have to close the door,
leave the bones of heartache under the floor.
After the ice breaks and you fall on through
and you drop from the heights were her angels flew,
put the pieces back somehow and start again.
Letting a lover down; we’re all guilty of that sin.
A morning in January, the weak sun rising on the beach,
the wind biting warm skin, heaven within reach,
have to hope she’ll come, walking through the sand
and into some sweet futur we’ll walk hand in hand.
Bury the hurt of the past now, in the dunes,
or launch them into space, out to Saturn’s moons.
Keep a fire of light and adoration burning,
to make bearable the fact the world is always turning.

All The Drama Geeks Grow Up Someday

All the Drama Geeks grow up someday,

All those youthful dreams and enthusiasms

Pass on.


So excited for a new song, so in love with

Someone, like they were the moon itself,

So wrapped in dreams.


So pure in our lust and perversion,

So pure in our wicked little hearts

And in our madness.


The world was a wonder, a dream,

And our tinsel stages, our little Eden

Was all we needed.


All the Drama Geeks grow up,

And grow cold, and lose the light,

And lose ourselves.


Those days are never coming back again.

We will never be innocent again.

The world will never dream us, now we’re awake.

All Night Drive-Thru

I drive to an all night drive-thru,

Wishing for dreams to come true.

Dreams of sleep and wonderful dreams.

A night when my mind no more screams.


I’ll be tired at work, and out of my mind.

But I can’t find rest, all things falling behind.

Anger fills my thoughts, impotent fury.

Disgust and fear come like a January flurry.


I think of her, and all the love she gives.

In her eyes, she sees the God that Lives.

I see only death and a broken world burning.

There is no gold flakes of hope for discerning.


Alone in my room, dark violent music playing.

I understand all the curses they are saying.

The Devil always wins, always corrupts the light.

I would not be at peace, even if she was holding me tight.

The Cat is Watchman

Is dad asleep?

He is sprawled on the couch, eyes closed,

but he isn’t snoring.


The cat is regal,

in the computer chair, watching TV,

random NCIS re-run on mute.


The cat is watchman,

the aloof and loving angel,

watching him through the dark hours.


Neither me or dad sleep at night,

up all hours, hungry for novelty

and feeling, a soothing to our restlesness.


The cat is his,

his protector and minister, heavenly emissary,

for dad was a hero in his youth.


The cat licks his chops,

he’s gotten to like the violent shows.

He’ll watch them with dad, all night long.


I grab tea from the fridge,

Dad could be closed in, but awake.

He doesn’t hear me, either way.


The cat regards me,

sniffing and squinting, turning away.

He protects dad. I made my mistakes.


Pool Party

Blue and white bathing suit, like when we were in high school.

She was a proud Fae, head high. I was a trickster, a sighing fool.

A pool in the backyard of an old friend, who we don’t know well.

She floats in the deep end, and I make wishes, hopes, all pell mell.


I was infatuated and obsessed in my youth, her arch pride, dark eyes.

I think she valued me, not as knight errant, not how crushes complies.

We talked once, over illicit wine, on a late night in a dark living room,

the tales of bastard saviors and fake ass demon friends that bring doom.


Blue and white bathing suit, and a lust memory, a dream I was a holy saint.

I should have been a man of god, a confessor and forgiver, without this taint.

I watch her float, weightless in harsh clear water, mesmerized by that sun.

I think she is lost, that I am gone already, but every scholar angel is on the run.


Can I put away the young man I was? Can I move past 40 and disappointed?

Beauty goes from yellow head to seeds blown in the wind, that is all appointed.

The water between worlds, the ocean in a tea cup, sky and pool not one blue.

Maybe we’ll be back to fighting demons, get to be angels again, that fight we drew.

A Fateful Grace

The boys take pictures of the pretty girls,

smiles, laughter, and long hair whipped in swirls.

Bright clothes against the blue sky, wide open sea,

the lie youth tells that they are weightless and free.


Swimsuits of blue and white, honor guard of passion.

Blue and white, cloud and sky, soft made a new fashion.

He loves her, but she turns away from him, a fateful grace.

He loves her, but she knows better than let him touch her face.


Dreams of love, of lovers by the sea, brings a certain shame.

She rides on his scooter, what he plans, he is the one to blame.

Beauty draws a line in the sand, a fault between all girls and boys.

He becomes the lycanthrope, no matter her shy and modest poise.


The sun is falling, and she is no Valkyrie as he is now Valhalla bound.

There is no rains in August, no storms for shelter, to soften thirsty ground.

He has the pictures in his camera, of her at play, at her in the deep waters.

Will her cherish them, or pervert them, as all priests curse their brave daughters.

Nouvelle Vague Fae

You said she never had a moral compass; a pretty solid own.

But maybe he who is without sin should cast the first stone.

Still anger at people from high school, twenty years ago.

I would like to talk of other things, like angels we’ll never know.


I look away, sigh at the waitress with the pretty orchid tattoo.

The night before one had one of a mermaid, green eyes, tail blue.

Sex is the blade that sliced open my throat, innocence without grace.

I know sex breaks our souls, but orchids heal, and she could touch my face.


Tomorrow we see aliens, the nouvelle vague Fae, tales of taken blood.

Made to be cattle and soul energy, not like our Adam of wind and mud.

I wish you didn’t sit in judgement of the world, you’re no bright light here.

The Fae live in the sky now, and in haste, they’ll make me cry and disappear.