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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.


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.



Barely Keeps Me Warm

The restaurant had been loud and bright.

All that noise rang in my head, even now.

I stood on the side of the road, pulled over,

looking out on the city lights in the valley.

Twinkling and distant, as I was God looking

down on the stars from the dark halls of heaven,

from the cold winter stillness of his throne room.


The hoodie, navy blue and emblazoned with an

actresses’ face, barely kept me warm in the wind.

The actress was an icon and an angel in the night.

I sought sublimity in her beauty, grace in her acts

of kindness, and hope in that she was like me;

one of God’s unwanted children, one all the good people

wanted swept away in a blood tide at the end of the world.


Up here in the hills, city lights below, the stars above,

my too long hair whipped about by a cold winter wind,

I wonder if the falling stars are angels coming to fight,

or fallen ones coming down to make sure it all fucking burns.

I wonder if I can find any peace anywhere else, any other place,

in this world that is ending not in God’s judgment, but in our own

nasty, petty cruelty, and blind, ravenous greed, and God just watching.

Faith can’t change the human heart, everyone acts all the same here.







Wednesdays In January

It always rains on Wednesdays in January.

It always is wet and muddy, so fucking ugly.

I sit cross legged outside the closed library.

I smoke a clove cigarette, watching all that grey.


Once, a woman touched my face, tender, loving.

Her fingertips outlined my cheeks, my lips, jaw.

The most intimate moment in the simplest thing.

No one comes close to me now. And I trust no one.


Wednesday is here with its rain, it’s cold bitterness.

I realize it’s always the same shit, over and over again.

I the restroom, before closing, I recognize my face,

staring back it me from the mirror. Just another ghost.

A Field of Flowers at The End

I don’t know if I should stay.

But, where should I go now?

The town feels empty tonight.

I see the angels as they bow.


High mountains out west,

plagued by aliens, reptoids.

Bury a saint in the cold snow.

A softness unsoothed by opioids.


No trees that high up; flowers.

A field of flowers at the end.

What might their seeds grow

with the tears that saint sends?


A rainy night in January, new year.

I realize what my hazel eyes hide.

The saint called off the airstrike tonight.

And, in strangers, waitresses, I confide.

New Year’s Eve, 2019

In the cold morning, I don’t know where to go, though I have somewhere to be.

Before sunrise, and all is silent and empty, and as peaceful as my mind will be.

I don’t call a women’s name. I don’t call a god’s name. I call the stars fruitless wombs.

Another year almost arrived. But it only gets worse for us. The blessed people kill all.

I keep my eyes on the ground, try to shiver off the cold, as another year come on.

Another year comes on, and prayers are still useless, and I still will not call her name.

Church Steps

I sit on the church steps in December cold, not wanting to go inside.

I hear a young woman singing “Silent Night”, and what is at my side?

A young child, she sings, is born and brings peace, as war is here now.

A savior for us all, that would welcome us home, if love is what we allow.


The sky is clear and full of stars. The moon casts down a bone cold light.

I look up at it, hoping for herald angels, or hope of where I’ll be tonight.

I was told of a savior as a child, of being precious, as voices condemn me.

I was told of a table for all God’s children, though who now will defend me?


The church is no escape from the pain and evil of this world, another cheat.

Though I know one who believes and loves, is light as scriptures the devils eat.

A cold child born to a poor family, the shepherds told first in the chill of morning.

Will their be peace before another war comes, at least heeding a savior’s warning?





No Hand Raised

I used to dream of the forests and snows up North.

I used to dream of melting like foam into the ocean.

I used to dream of love and of kisses, of two made one.


You say there’s places to hide, where God gives us shelter.

You say no one goes because of the cost, the sacrifice of it.

You say trust God, and all will be well, and you will be whole.


But cruelty is the Church’s coin, and God always looks the other way,

when children are abused, when the innocent are shamed, and power

because the word of scripture, just another fucking weapon on the weak.


No place is safe. The knives are always out, no one can be trusted

because of their faith or party or high minded bullshit; all are predators.

And God always looks the other way, no hand raised, to the abusers.


I used to dream of escape. I used to dream their were places to go.

I used to dream a lover could quiet those wolves clawing at the door.

But there’s is nothing true here. Nothing pure. The Devil always wins.

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.

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.