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Not When I Look At You

I feel the weight of the night,

The paranoia closing the sun,

The death coming with spring,

But not when I look at you.


I can’t see the light being gentle,

The sun ever forgiving us for what’s done.

I fear the luminescence that will burn us,

But not when I look at you.


When I look at you I feel God close

And hear the angels wings beating the clouds

And the bells ringing in the morning,

And forget how I, how we all, let you down.


You are a star in flesh, a shard of Eden,

And all that’s pure and sweet in this race.

I see you and I remember, what we can be,

What lights can shine in the sky.


I am young again, for a moment,

For a breath and a laugh, a dream.

I have hope for our rotten kind,

When I look at you.



For Olivia

Seattle Rains Are Baptismal

It rains here, so I am safe and comforted.

               It rains and the wind is cool, the sky so grey.

               The rains wash away the scent the demons follow.

               The rains wash the blood from my hands.


               People I know up here, love me, but have no time.

               I stay in a little house with lush, knotted trees.

               I sit in them, and dream of an Elven Princess, from before.

               The rain cannot wash away her kisses, or kindness.


               In my room, with the innocent tales of enchanted forests,

               I try to hold onto to the cleanliness the rains have given.

               That Elven Princess comes to me, sweet and winged,

               And for a moment, a flicker, there’s more than hate, anger.


               She sleeps beside me, and I can touch the stars, and bleed.

January Bridge

Juliette, did you say The Angel Michael would watch over us?

               High and burning with fire, pure and sharp wings, might sword,

               Up in the sky and in our hearts, in our souls, ever brave, ever faithful.


               I see the stars falling out of the sky, the moon as blood, the sun dark,

               I see bared teeth and clenched fists, gun barrels pointed at so many,

               I see the promises of a savior become grotesque in their breaking.


               It’s January, Juliette, and a New Year has come, but it all feels the same.

               Where is Michael, as this sad season turns bleaker with our broken hearts?

               Where is Michael, as the faithful sharpen their fangs, file their talons?


               Maybe, Juliette, the falling snow is manna from his outspread wings,

               And this hunger for peace and love is being answered with the quiet

               And the momentary innocence of a snow morning, as we sleep.


               I hope I can hang onto that hope.

Michelle II

Awkward and shy, passing each other.
Smiles, eyes turning, glancing back, turning.
A sweetness, my emptiness could smother.
A pin prick of blood calls up this yearning.

In the park, my hideaway, stars starting to call.
The moon whispers the dreams I thought lost.
Hearts and stars and angels can so easily come a fall.
May I kiss her, hold her, make her mine by first frost?

A winter night by a fire, I’d tell her the tales of gods and men.
A tale of fate and devotion and the lengths to touch a lover’s soul.
A tale where good and love and all the righteous ones do win.
A tale that is really about me and her, and how she made me whole.

The Witch’s Sleep

Can’t hold hands with Joan without being spit on by Gilles.
The broken stained glass window is a testament of bleeding wills.
The night is endless as daylight madness in the witches’ sleep.
The golden teeth in rows are burning down 30 feet deep.
Now comes the night that punishes with loveless dreams.
The silver hook picks them off one by one by undoing tin seams.
The Devil knows honor while god rewards treachery and violence.
The Devil knows a lover’s kiss while god’s testament is untenable silence.
The hole in the eye is running with auburn curls of a long lost broken faith.
The tip of my finger runs a gorge in soft, white flesh that carresses a wraith.
We knew the score once sex and bitterness took hold in times of sweetness.
We knew a kiss was the dragon chasing us, taunting us, with it’s incompleteness.
Now burn the blue star into ashes to make a new drug seem worthwhile.
Now burn me into a shadow of childhood with the sweet syringe of your smile.w

In Flickering Passion

She is there, standing alone in the park, by the little brook,
smoking a cigarette beneath the sickly streetlamp, looking away.
She is there, in all the glory that I adored, all the sereinity of hell,
all the quiet of the grave, all the sleep of cherished minds misplaced.
She is there, and I am here.
 She is there, twenty years past, when I ran among sorceresses, demons,
and felt a cold flame in my belly, knew the rage that won an angel’s love,
and the certainty that youth knows in coming death, in flickering passion
and the little deaths that build castles out of broken shards of our eyes.
She is there, and I am here.
 I am here, lost, without words to tell, or a dream to write on her lips,
or kisses to touch upon her eyes, and make blooms of nights of shed blood,
or a softness in a devilish heart, that held all of the darkness like a child,
and gave took from her fleshy orchids that turned lust into life.
I am here, and she is there.
 Madness is now just stupid hunger and a dull ache, a missing hangman,
a calming of a salacious heart, that brings ashes for dreams, a deathlike
reckoning in a life without purpose or rage or anysort of kindness in night.
A ghost, neither who I was then, or the child I was before, just a ticking clock.
I am here, and she is there.

Free Will and Harm

The thing about Utopia’s is that they are, by definition, totalitarian. Everyone in it has to agree that the way things are done are the way they must be done. Any conflict gets introduced, someone says “No, this is not right”, and the whole thing gets ripped apart.

Let’s use Adam and Eve as a metaphorical frame work.

God would let Adam and Eve live in The Garden forever, without want or pain or suffering, as long as they obeyed his command to not eat of The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.

They disobeyed. Suffering came into the world. Utopia was destroyed by conflict.

Yet, there were benefits from this too.

For one thing, no longer being immortal, humans had to reproduce, which meant children and families.

And, in a world where evil is possible, good is also possible.

Where you can fail, you can also succeed.

And of course, where you can choose what to do, you can choose to do harm.

That’s what it meant to eat from the Tree of Good and Evil, to know choice, and to have the ability to do harm.

But, it always seems like doing harm get’s chosen so much more. Maybe it’s confirmation bias on my part, or that evil travels so much better than good. But it seems that those who are supposed to be good, Clergy, Officers of The Law, Politicians, are the most vicious monsters of all. The cloak of good hides a pleathora of evil. And those who genuinely do good get ground under mercilessly.

For life to have choice, it looks to me, means that life for most is like filled with pain.

But, Utopia is it’s own kind of monster.

Returning again to Adam and Eve. I saw this movie once called Adam and Eve vs. The Cannibals. It hewed real close to the biblical tale until the expulsion from The Garden, at which the movie just gets weird.

But while Adam and Eve are still in The Garden, there is a part where The Serpent has started to try and tempt Eve into eating The Forbidden Fruit, and Adam is trying to talk her out of it, talking about how disobeying God would lead to them being kicked out of their paradise. To this Eve angrily retorts:

“What am I going to do? Watch another sunset? Take another bath?”

The chose seems to be stasis and therefore atrophy and boredom, or a chance to grow, but also to be snuffed out.

If we have choice, by definition we have the ability to do harm. Harm is a heavy metal concert next to one woman singing a lullabye on an acoustic guitar; the quiet and the good is drowned out by the loudness of harm. Harm dominates everything we see, just blanks out all the good.

But sometimes, the good does shine through. And with the ability to do harm is also the ability to love and help and nurture.

We die, but we get children and families. We hurt, but we can comfort and find solace in those who love us. We can do harm, but we can also fight it.

“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”—–Leonard Cohen, Anthem

Gold and Brass

Southern girl, I guess I’m asking for trouble, falling for you.
The blonde hair with black roots and that laughing drawl.
The sweetness and the sass and the heart of gold and brass.
The love for the forests and the wilds and your great god’s world.
 Passing time at a breasturant, drinking beer, watching a game.
You’re my favorite server, always so sweet, with that edge of desire.
I live cloistered indoors and am only reverent of the wilds in verse
and I am not what you want, can never be what you so greatly love.
 South of Mason Dixon I was born, but I was a changeling, a fae, a misfit.
More Woody Allen or Neil Gaiman than Bocephus or Ronnie Van Zant.
But your beauty and your brass heart rings bright in my heart and dreams.
I always fall for what will slip through my fingers, like a siren calling a ship.
 You hug me goodbye, and I relish the feel of you close, you holding me tight.
And I ask when you work again, and I know I’ll be here again to see you then.
Don’t be it, just dream. I should just dream of you and let it all stay perfect there.
The night is here, and there is some Cure song perfect for how I feel, as i drive home.

A Women’s Voice

As the sun rises, I want only to sleep.
A slumber lightless and ever so deep.
The demons ran through all night long.
I tried to soothe myself with her song.
The app plays the soft tunes so sweet.
I dream of a pretty girl I want so to meet.
If I were in her arms would the demons go.
Love is a stranger, I might not ever know.
The siren call of leaving for the dark moon,
the siren call of leaving this life too soon,
calls out in my insomniac haze and coldness.
Is staying here, hoping, foolishness or boldness?
A song comes on, a women’s voice, a song tender.
Another day comes, another day of hopes so slender.
That women’s voice reaches into me, calls me back,
as if she’s saying: “Stay, don’t go, you can’t take it back.”


 This was a secret world, among the thick green and tall grass, a lush little grotto by the clear, silver creek. The sounds of the highway and the shouts and noise of the people in the town did not come here. It was a shard of Eden.
Gabriella was leading me by the hand. That hand was small and warm, and felt so light and strong in my own. We did not talk, as this was sacred.
The branches and leaves of the trees hid even the twilight sky, though honeyed gold lit us in robes of flames. She pulled her hand away and faced me. She smiled, then placed her hands on my shoulders, signaling me to kneel in the dirt.
I did.
Her smile grew brighter, and she did the same.
Her fingers brushed my cheek, and she looked me in the eye, locking me in her light, which was grey like starlight, and as ancient. Her eyes were the color of the water that was the only sound, deep and resonate and without blemish.
She kissed me, softly, tenderly. Her fingers curled into my hair.
A light began to emminate from inside her chest, crimson and pulsating and rich, the color of blood and life and birth. She put her fingers into that light, and pulled her chest open.
The ball of crimson light came out in her hands. Our sacred place was like an unshed womb, dark with nuturing flesh.
On her face was a shy and intimate smile, the light in her hand she was handing to me, to my hands that waited and trembled, in this most intimate moment, our most delicate bonding.
She was handing me her soul.
I held it, and it was heat that did not burn, a dream that did not wake, a wound that was cut and healed at birth.
I felt the light of her, the essence that had drawn me to her, helpless against her wonder, was in my hands.
We were one, this angel and me.
And I felt all the sweetness of my life return, untarnished by loss and the fall from grace, I felt the times the light of heaven had poured through me like the river crashing in white capped power down the mountain, washing away all else in it’s past.
If I had been unworthy, we both would have burned away.
And in that fleeting eternity, that sweetness of her glory, she knew all there was in me, and all I could be, that I would be, for her, for us.
And I returned her soul to her , and slipped back into her silk and soft flesh that closed around it, and sealed in the light.
She looked like a young woman again, hiding her power and beauty.
Again, she reached out and touched my face, stroking my cheek.
Again, she gave me a soft, tender kiss.
The tears wracked me then, unable to absorb all that had happened, that we had shared.
She drew me in her arms and kissed my head, sang me a song from some happy land.
I cried, then slept in her arms.