Monthly Archives: January 2020

Sighing Grace

Her blue Vespa was parked on the street, as she sat in the empty lot, drinking red wine.

It was early Sunday morning, and no one was about, the parties were now extinguished.

There was only a smattering of stars above, a few points of light, but they comforted her.


It was her birthday. It was an unusually warm morning in January. It was a sighing grace.

The stars would shine and the sun would rise for millions and billions of years yet.

She lay down in the cool grass, looked up at the stars that shone through in the city.


The red wine made her head spin, and she felt the world turn, and the starlight laugh.

It was her birthday. Her heart was wild and wanting to hear the stars, or God or her lover

return the beat of her heart, the fetid warmth of her breath, the wonder of her hope.


The stars would shine and the sun would rise, whatever the human race would do.

The sun was rising, and the sun would go from black to pink to blue, soothing, bright.

She got up from the grass, got on her Vespa, and hoped the one she loved, loved her.


The Blade Will Close It’s Mouth

Lilah used to dream the prophecies she wrote in the dark blue notebook.

The visions that were truth and poetry that we could not understand then,

but that the blade would close it’s mouth when prayers were without hands.


By the window, single pane, that let in the cold, but also star light and the moon,

she would sleep fitfully under her white covers, waking too write, waking to fight

the demons that collected around our heads, the crown of thorns we wore as youths.


She wrote these visions, and they were our strength, out God speaking to us,

the holy writ that drew blood, shamed our fingers, and gladdened our eyes.

She wrote them, and tried to tell me and the world and her old friend the moon.


It is winter again, and she is lost, with only scraps of her prophecies remaining.

She was claimed from this world, and sleeps now in heaven, without any weight.

Sometimes a white feather falls from the ceiling, lands on my face as I sleep fitfully.


And all her prophecies were ignored, and The Red Dragon knocked the stars down.

I collect up what fragments remain of her, tell the world of her, the sighing martyr.

I wait in this room, my only friend the moon, and as I sleep, she touches my face.



The Year and The Decade

It is winter, and I know it’s so cold

and my hoodie is thin, even if it’s

navy blue.


The sky above is lightening, pink

and wan red, a broken and bleeding



James Agee Park on a Sunday morning,

having run away from the party and my



Hidden under the arbor, without tears,

as the the year and the decade and all hope



The sun keeps rising, and it will when it’s

all used up and dead, a mother with no

children to suckle.


A childhood crush, I have lost to the years,

had midnight black hair without the stars,

smelled of honeysuckle.


I shiver in the cold, and I don’t know where

to go, or how I can find an angel to take my

cold, bone white hand.


I hope one angel falls in love with me,

as friends are strangers and enemies

in this unhappy land.


The arbor keeps me hidden, and the sky

is soft, cherry blossom pink, baby blue,

a soft light.


I know her name and her season now,

but she won’t put away the silver knife

when she holds m tight.

By Her Side

I sit by her on the roof of the old, down at heel Victorian mansion in The Fort, long ago split up into apartments.

I sit by her, as we drink from a bottle of red wine, even in the cold of a January night.

There is a smattering of stars above us.


I sit by her, as I’ve been by her side the whole night, until the part died down, and it was a quiet morning.

I sit by her, and we talk and laugh, and I feel as close to her as I’ve felt to anyone in so long.

She points out Venus, the morning star.


I sit by her, and I know I am falling in love to easily, too greedily. I know from the leader she follows I am not her kind.

I sit by her, but does that mean staying silent, as war comes close, as I feel I must speak up now?

I don’t move as she reaches out to touch my face.

Races, Shootouts and Air Hockey

Daisy, so bright and free,

As we play in the arcade,

Races, shootouts, and air hockey.


You win and cry out proudly,

Hands above your head,

Every bit of you flushed with pride.


I may lose, but I win, seeing you

So happy, so pleased, so cocksure,

So beautiful in your happiness.


Bouncing around the mall,

You buy a poster of your celeb crush,

And I buy a shirt for a favorite band.


Eat ice cream by the fountain,

You talk about your novel writing

And a planned tripped to Tel-Aviv.


I feel so peaceful, so sure, with you,

And all the glitter in your voice,

All the manna in your smile.


I steal a quick picture, as you

Blow a bubble with your gum,

The goofball in the brave woman.


And later, I look at it,

Sitting in the dark of my room,

Trying to hold onto that perfect night.


Trying to hold onto you.

Only Bones

I fell asleep in the car, parked in The Fort, a weak winter morning.

There was snow in the night, and even this ugly neighborhood is shining.

My head still cold from the glass, I watch the sunrise.


I think of some long ago thing, some sacred place, and I put it away.

Winter is here, and there is no place to run to, as the world ends again.

I put away trinkets and snapshots of love that was only a high, a drug.


A young woman walks carefully down the sidewalk, in a bright red parka.

Long chestnut hair hangs loosely. She looks up, sees me and smiles, looks down.

We have stolen everything from her. Her children will be lords of only bones.


June, it passes without a breath.

In this room, the day met it’s death.

I see sweet seduction in bare skin,

sucking on an ice cube from a glass of gin.

The sunlight gold becomes the moon’s white.

That smile, that warmth, this appetite.

If angels know passion, let this spell be.

If only demons work flesh, cast me into the sea.

I want to go to you, and know you, open those doors.

I want to go to you, but not spill blood from my wars.

In the moon’s white we illuminate the divine eyes.

A dream of solace in touch and in passionate sighs.

Lay close to me, your flaxen hair soft as heaven’s silk.

Let it bring us close to life, let us not choke on the devil’s milk.

Let the name I chose for you become a sacred rhyme.

Let us be humble and whole, this time.

Garden Between Rivers

Walking in the winter morning, still dark and quiet.

Cold snap, and the medal I wear of a military saint

Won’t keep the demons away when they come.


I can’t call to that friend, can’t call her name

With faith or hope, though I love her so much.

Angels have flame swords that smite unbelievers.


James Agee Park, between the Tigris and the Euphrates

Might one day be in bloom and eternal sun again

And I can take her hand and love her with no fear of wrath.


The Messenger Angel

The Messenger Angel, is eating cold cereal in my kitchen.

They are watching the birds on the naked limbs of winter trees.

They are lost in thought, maybe composing a revelation for someone.


Awkward and abashed, I try to think of the words, or something,

the right invocation, or obscure formula that formulated at the

beginning of time for one such as this.


The Messenger Angel wipes away the milk from their lips

with the back of their forearm, then lips the bowl to their

lips, greedily drinks the sugary milk.


I make to sit in front of them, on the other side of the table,

but just stand in the entrance to the kitchen. I don’t look them

in the eye.


The bids sing, the house is cold, and The Messenger Angel

puts down the bowl. They look at me and sigh, standing up

to go.


“I’ve already told you what I came here to tell you.

I am not your judge, or enemy, and I am your friend.

It’s all up to you now.”


The Messenger angel walks past me, and my eyes are

still down and pull away from them as they pass,

and go out the door.

My Father’s Sins

I am my father’s sins revisited, revealed and lived again.

Let me entertain you. Let me play the fool to amuse you.

See me make eyes and flirt and tell jokes to beautiful women.

See me charm them with this goofball cornpone bullshit.

I will disappear, when I am home, not say anything, watch TV.

I will disappear, no audience means no joy, or a reason to care.


I am my father’s sins, and just as helpless and floundering before them.

I don’t come close to anyone. I can give ’em the old razzle dazzle,

but I run from sorrow and pain and the messiness of our human sickness.

I just fill my time alone with dreams and memories and lusts.

He sits in his chair upstairs, and I sit in mine downstairs, befuddled.

We both want to be close to each other, or someone, but we turn away.