Monthly Archives: October 2019


I wake up in the middle of the night, from a dream already fading.

The house is still, but the street lights outside my window block the stars.

I imagine halos on the sickly yellow light.


I lay still in the dark, trying to get back to sleep, to sweet dreams this time.

I have hope, only in dreams, of finding rest and hope.

The sickly halos are mocking the stars, any hope war won’t come.

Sleep, Dreams and Wakefulness

I sit in the back seat, my head resting against the cold, fogged window, as I slip between sleep, dreams, and wakefulness.


Ethereal music is playing, blue and sounding as if it were rising from a wine dark sea, a woman singing, a siren of tender things.


The moon was bright above us, and the stars unhurried in their laughter, the angels hearing the joke of their lives tonight.


I allow myself to dream of love, of the loss that made me see the light in her, and the magic of a kind and generous touch.


I allow myself to be loved.

Sparks To The Stars

The muddy lake, low from lack of rain.

We sit in her pick up truck, radio going.

It’s fall, finally feeling like it, dark, cool.


The song is a love ballad; it’s soothing.

It’s also bullshit. Like out plans to leave.

I dare not tell her what she already knows.


That I am in love with her.


Still at the lake, the sun fallen away.

Trash and scrap wood, from the bed,

make a little fire, sparks to the stars.


We sit on the dropped tailgate, watching.

Mesmerized by flames, filth of our madness.

Stars such poor comfort for boredom, loss.


Baptisms happen here in the summer.

Our filth left in the mud, our sins washed.

But I don’t believe that now. I am losing her.


I am in love with her.

God’s Highway

My car’s a beater, but it holds together, it will get us there.

She has the passenger seat set all the way back, wide awake.

Sun roof open, she looks up at the sky full of stars, and dreams.


Just the headlights on the long and empty highways, sky wide open.

It’s wonderful that God’s eye is on us. It’s terrible that God’s eye is on us.

Nowhere to hide, our hearts naked and shivering, under all those stars.


She watches the stars, and we hope they’re angels watching the world,

not Michael and his army amassed to wipe all this madness away forever.

I squeeze her hand, calloused and cool, knowing we must keep moving.


Highway, headed west, to where others are waiting, a beleaguered hope.

So many stars, and she could make their light into dreams and prophecies.

We cannot hide from God beneath this wide open sky, all is there to see.

All Night and Day

Headed west in a pink Mercury Capri, that used to belong to star.

The desert is fading, becoming the green of the mountain meadows.

Up in the heights it’s becoming green, wildflowers blooming for spring.

The radio plays the news, all night and day, of the war that’s finally come.


I don’t know what I hope to find. I might just want to move and move.

Restless nights spent driving, out running demons, but never The Devil.

The wild flowers bow their heads in cool winds, almost as if in prayer.

The radio plays the news, all night and day, of the war that’s finally come.


I’ll stay in the mountains, maybe head north to Canada, and thick forests.

The cold rivers where maybe baptism will finally take, make we whole, clean.

It’s just me, and I run and run, and I want love, but always run out on it.

The radio plays the news, all night and day, of the war that’s finally come.


One stop, outside of Denver, in a little suburban town, a garden of martyrs.

I sit at the foot of her cross, the one that saved me for a time, brought the light.

I weep, for I seem to fall and break an hate, while she is still an angel in this world.

Back in the car, I know this war is the end, no future for the children, or our kind.


Armageddon that we brought on ourselves, The Devil laughing, victorious again.

Hope, When The Veil Is Thin

Her and I sit on top of the empty building, high above the city.

The sun is almost down, and the sky is a deep lavender blue.

The lights of the city spread before us, jewels we can never steal.


In our red hoodies, hoods up, and thin jeans and torn up sneakers,

we snuggle close, my arm around her shoulders, her head on mine,

silent, and knowing we are powerless against the powerful ones.


Her hair is silky, and soothing, my face filled with strawberries

of her scented shampoo, as I lay my cheek against her head, as

she lays her head on my shoulder, as we wait for the veil to thin.


The sun is gone, and all the stars are down on the ground, not up

in the sky above, and even with the vantage of angels, and pure hearts,

we cannot change that we can only react to the devils, not divert them.


But on Halloween, the veil is thin, and we can call the angels to us,

with flaming swords and snow white wings and golden, glowing eyes,

if we can draw the right blood from our palms, the right tenderness in touches.


We huddle close on top of an abandoned building, the city below, bright, gold.

Just us for us in this world, the strung and broken cabal of few friends,

and the riches of purity and love, that can be stolen so easily by power.


I kiss her head, that strawberry scent soothing and aching, without hope.

She squeezes my middle, tightly, as I might fly away, or jump into the void.

It should be cold on Halloween, when the veil is thin, and we dare to hope.

Ministry of Water

Black lamb, in the foggy field.

Night’s rain still in your wool.

Cold eyes make me now yield.

Winter makes a summery fool.


What is the dream you have here?

Hunger, the demon. Comfort, the sin.

The sun will swallow us soon, I fear.

Life feeds on death; innocence can’t win.


Black lamb, you look on me, full of hate.

Knife in my hand, in hunger I slaughter.

Hunger, comfort, the inevitable weight.

Knife in my hand, the ministry of water.

Blonde and Eerie

Sushi restaurant, Farragut on a Saturday night.

I feel exposed behind the all glass front, the light

making me blind to anything outside, but making

me clear to anyone outside.


You are coming. I don’t trust you. I don’t trust, at all.

You are coming with kind words, and you say “Love”,

but your righteous kind take love away so easily,

so quickly draw the knives.


I look at the wallpaper on my phone, as I eat, wait.

A fashion model, blond and eerie and eyes unquiet.

Her smile hides the demons that eat her every thought.

Rich, poor, the demons devour us, and take our hearts.


5 minutes until you said you’d be here. 5 minutes more.

Your brethren in the faith make the qualms about killing.

You laugh it off. You say they are not of the faith or real.

You are silent to drawn knives.


Exposed to the world, in the light in a night full of people,

I eat, I look at the model on my phone, I know you’re empty.

I make my plan to walk to the hills above the city, and watch,

as the light of man fails, and the stars make us weep for all.

They Sing

Outside of the church, smoking a cigarette,

knowing I sorrow I wish I could just forget.

They sing of heaven and love and such grace,

but there’s no safety among this human race.


And the atheists and parties and every kind,

every place people are, they have a cruel mind.

They sing of acceptance and love, a safe place,

but let none of them close to touch your face.


There is a lover I will go to, on this cold night.

They will welcome me. They will hold me tight.

They sing of love, and no one will ever replace,

but they might draw tears, after touching my face.

The Devil Got The Rain

The forest highway is behind me, the choked woods and shadows.

The mountains have been passed by, wildflowers, grassy meadows.

The cold rivers that crash through, that carry all ghosts to the ocean.

The spirits torn up as the sky and sun grow dark from fires, potions.


The last stop, end of the highway. I’ve made it to harbor, to the water.

The Devil got the rain. The angel got the moon. Neither ever got her.

The ghost in the sleep of my waking eyes Spirit in terrible, cold dreams.

Trying to charm Persephone, I’ve written odes, tributes, that filled reams.


A smattering of rocks in the harbor, and in the dim, wasted sun I see them.

The mermaids, watching wearily, as we make death, loss a party time whim.

May not be there, but I see them clearly, with dark hair and mournful songs.

I must them, I must believe, for with those unquiet creatures my lost one belongs.