Tag Archives: ambivalence

Sleepy Android Face

She had a sleepy android face,

forlorn of a world more fists

that spirits, more blade than halo.

Her long dark hair was straight,

and the barest protection from

the rain and the gun.

A leather jacket that been through

the war, stiff and dry and hard,

kept her metal and lightning heart

pounding in her thin but strong chest.

The jeans and boots would keep her name

secret from the demons crawling in her skin.

The rain was the empty words of God,

promise cleanliness, but just making you cold.

The demons came in through the eye, even,

especially, for the pious. All youth and tender innocence

to be sucked dry and picked clean, the demons

arming the men goodly for the job.

Her sleepy android face was still, and sad,

and tears of saltwater or maybe glycerin came,

and a warm place was hollowed out in Athena’s shoulder,

that brass statue up in The Fort, were ruin looks on the river.

That warm place, big enough for one, would shelter her.

For demons are in flesh, and the making of flesh for newborns.

Don’t touch, and The Demons can’t get you.

Cooing Dove

Her buzzcut was growing out,
> A fine tawny bristle on her head.
> Same cool, bottle green eyes
> That took devotion as their daily bread.
> Thin fingers, hand rolled cigarette,
> She cut the deck, showed the Death Knight.
> She exhaled pungent smoke, ghostly smile,
> Then the name of God she did slowly write.
> A name that drew blood in my amoral heart
> And gave her the only peace in her dreams.
> My lover was a fickle thread in stained cloth
> And that name was the strength in the seams.
> I ate the note, which tasted of honey,
> And the name pinpricked my lover’s tears.
> The woman before me offered wine, wrath,
> But I made my sword a plowshare many years.
> I kissed her head, golden bristle like a bird,
> Her eyes stole a daydream of us making love.
> It was another wing, a beleaguered seraphim.
> Her face was quickly hidden by a cooing dove.

Blood, Milk and Honey

A pilgrim’s tattoo, marking the embers of faith,

Marking where the cross become a muttered word,

And her kiss burned a sacrifice.


A woman may know, or is too divine for love,

Or keeps the shepherdess veil closed to all,

And sees only god’s face in the water.


Outside the city, where prophets roared,

And the words drew blood and milk and honey,

I walk the path to her.


What does the penatent offer to the prideless?

What does prayers offer to the contentedly concealed?

What words can I make for her?


The tattoo itches and burns, light perdition and salvation,

And I know not these hills and her home with the lost,

But I only seek what isn’t seen or found.




No Dreams In It’s Droplets

The ocean IS, only that. Tides and waves and currents.
No dreams in it’s droplets. No fear in it’s crashing surf.
But we ARE. We dream and fear and hope and chase.
Those waves cannot wash away my thoughts and tics.
No water cleanses us to peace, but from the River Styx.
The ocean just follows the forces, the warmth and the moon.
Our minds are broken and pushed by a wind of desire,
emotion and pure animal need. We are more but so much less.
I dream of her, and love her, and hope it all goes well, but I cannot say.
She may look the other way. The drama might shed blood. No one knows.
The ocean just IS, and goes on without an itch in the brain, a tear in the eye.
I might dive under it’s cold waves, just to be a body, just to be a dream.