Tag Archives: isolation

She Will Not

Quiet. Cool forest. Little creek.
I hear angels. I hear them speak.

Autumn comes. She will not.
Her battle won. Her battle fought.

Ghosts can’t haunt the bandstand.
I sleep there, her Armageddon planned.


A lock of her hair hold scents of perfume.
It’s seal holds our hands fast, hurries doom.

I lost my way home. I was directed too.
In cold, stony ground, her orchids grew.

A derelict department store has the grail.
The church took the casket, kept her wedding veil.


Autumn is a sweet kiss before she slumbers.
I’ll have to stay awake, keep dialing God’s numbers.

She is close, but being unable to touch hurts.
Stay away from the club on Farragut’s outskirts.

I keep a lock of her soul in my whirling wings.
I hear her. I hear heaven. How this wonder stings!

The Stars Pulling Off Their Masks

Smoking? When did I start smoking again?
Filterless Camels like before, one after another,
futile against stress, nerves and dead AM Channel static.
I realize I’m sitting alone again, looking down on the city,
waiting for it to beautiful in it’s distant, golden lights
as the sun goes down, and there another one in my fingers.
I don’t remember buying them. I don’t remember picking the habit
up again after all this time, and I don’t even remember driving here,
but here I am again, after work, not wanting to go home.
I sit on my car’s hood, windows down, an enveloping synthpop love song
playing, wrapping me in warmth and peace, like being hugged tightly
by a plump and soft woman, one who loves you dearly.
I stare out into the city lights coming up, the stars pulling off their masks,
and, as I work my way through the pack of smokes, dream of her,
the earth goddess, the one who plucks the strings of devotion, thrumming light.
The song plays on repeat. It is the first of autumn, and it’s growing chilly,
almost bitter as the sun fades away, but the cold is calming, peaceful,
reminds me of something lost, when all was well.
I cannot keep the Bad Thoughts away forever, not with the city lights,
the stars showing me their faces, or the beautiful, embracing love song.
The come again and again, and maybe the stress is why I forget so much.
One last cigarette, and then I’ll have to face the room without treasures,
the thoughts that intrude like a rude neighbor couple screaming at each other
at 3 AM, hating each other, unable to leave and unable to stop.
I try to hold onto her, and the music, and all the sweet and innocent things
that slip away from me, harder and harder to call back all the time.
I try to imagine kissing her, warm and pale lips. I try to imagine being full of love,
Like her.

Edge of the Pool, Drying Her Hair

She sits there, my friend, on the edge of the pool.

Still wet from swimming, her black, low back one piece glistening.

Her long, red hair, usually bright and frizzy, is dark, tamed.

I watch her, looking at her mostly bare back, the ridges and valleys,

the mountains that shift and become taut as she moves her arm,

drying her hair with a bright, red towel.

Even after having been in the water, I bet her skin is warm.

Even after the hours of chlorine, I bet her skin is smooth.

Even after all the time in the sun, I do not go into the water.

She turns her head, getting all the strands of her long hair,

and she sees me, in my black jeans and long sleeves, and she smiles,

and I smile back, and know her gaze is fleeting.

I get up, and order another soda from the concession stand, as she

goes to the women’s locker room to change, and I’ll drive her home

and then she’ll go out have a good time, while I look out, only dreaming, watching.

My Lover Has A Serpent’s Kiss

Bad dreams. Always bad dreams. Frantic. Exhausting.
I sit outside. Smoke a cigarette. Wait for Armageddon.

Nuclear silos nearby. Word could come. Arrogant fire.
Give an ape a match and he’ll always burn the jungle down.


My lover is still sleeping. She says The Fey will come for us.
We’ll live underground and be young forever and not burn.

My lover, while we were drinking, showed me the scar.
Scar on her belly. The aliens caesarianed her hybrid baby.


Fire. Nuclear fire. Big atomic blaze in the sky. Keeps us warm.
Fire. Nuclear fire. We flicked the flint on the sun. Burn ourselves.

The sun keeps it’s distance out of love. It’s generosity could ruin.
We bring it here. We make it here. Stupid, hate filled apes.


My lover calls a name in her sleep. His name. The one before.
The Fey feel distant. Like the heart I spray painted on Pluto.

My lover has a serpent’s kiss. The sweet venom gives visions.
I was beyond all space and time. And then I came down forever.


The sun. The Bomb. The Fey who might come through on a dare.
What was a kiss in the sky ends us with a fist on the earth.

My lover reads my thoughts, when the reels runs out on her dreams.
An intimate invasion. I saved that one word for my True Spirit:


“I Rightly Turn Away”

Milwaukee skating rink, on a snowy night right before Christmas.

I don’t want to go home to family that are strangers who don’t,

and cannot, are just unwilling to understand what I’m feeling, going through.

I want to stay in this dark place, heated to discomfort, but enveloping,

and the candy lights dancing in shadows, as all these kids, all these young people,

are free and easy, not knowing what is coming for them.

On a stage, a petite brunette, her frayed hair up in a ponytail, closes her eyes,

and sings about how “No boy, I will not love you”, “I rightly turn away”,

the music sharp and electronic, and soft and warm as a new lover’s kisses.

Kids, teenagers, young smart ass punks, poet and dreamers, and death worshippers,

all dancing and holding hands and dreaming of that one true love, or the one that

broke their hearts, or some better sunny future down in Hollywood.

The highs of youth, on free and fearless love, or the stars whispering in your ears,

falls away so quickly, leaving ashes and regrets and need to sleep mornings away.

It is warm hear, and none talks to me, so I won’t feel alone when they will not listen.

I was like these kids once, but death came close, and fear and so much pain.

I cannot end the scars and wreckage, and none of those asshole can reach out honestly.

That petite brunette locks eyes with me, and I smile, and in the dark I see her smile back.

The candied lights and all the pure dreams and all the things I can almost reach in her,

call back another girl, another song, another dream, and a lost and ruined life.

The Wind Became Words

The room is dark, but I see starlight out the window
as I lay in bed, sleepless, shivering, angry at everything.
Once, the minister took me to the mountain, to teach me
scripture and theology. I only heard God in the wind.
The wind became words.
I read of Spanish Captains and The New World,
the ocean forever, Man’s eye looking up At Gods Eye, the sky.
I read of the clear blue waters of The Pacific, the distant isles,
and the wild raging storms that make the measure of a man.
God’s words would be in the wind.
I decide. I am 17. I can join The Navy. Mom will sign me over.
Her trouble making boy someone else’s worry now.
My duffel bag packed, I walk on the sidewalk to the recruiter,
dawn a soft satin blue that has not yet become garish and gaudy.
And God, He whispers secrets in the wind.


She sits naked on the bed, her back to me, looking out the window.
It is a dim and hazy morning, window open, a warm wind does blow.
She might turn into a bird, ash grey like heaven, flutter up and go.
The morning filled with the calls of birds, commuters, hangmen.
She could see the end of the world where every death will begin.
If her wings come through her shoulder blades, the devil will win.
I kiss those same shoulder blades, those sharp faces, special dispensation.
She is in another world, enjoying her Friday Feast, registers no sensation.
My meal of cold fish cannot pour out enough love to absolve her resignation.
Feathers are sharp, fine wire, taking bits of flesh as they cut down the strings
of the most holy and indifferent stars, falling to earth and all the confusion it brings.
The sweetness of that first kiss as I sit here, sharing breath but not intimacy, stings.
She could be in Cleveland by sundown, or Pompeii before they’d miss her in the store.
She watches the world wake, and time the revenge of a friend she lost in another war.
She is gone, and I count the wounds her sharp and disinterested talons leave in the floor.

I Fear I Am Boring You

I see you getting antsy, checking your phone,
growing restless.
I’m sorry. I try to find words to say.
Something interesting to say.
Even a joke, if that’d keep you here.
Don’t go. Please, don’t leave me.
Talk to me. About anything. Literally anything.
Your favorite band is a band I hate, but I want
to hear all about them and their genius from you.
Talk about last semester in nursing school.
Talk about that bitch Skylar and the shit she pulled.
Talk about vacations to places I could never afford to go.
Talk about anything. I will listen. I will care.
Don’t go. Please don’t leave me.
Please, don’t leave me.

Starlings Read The Sky

The Ivory Tower That Welcomes The Lost

Las Vegas is bright by it is light invisible. There is nothing revealed. There is no warmth.

The songs of my youth, of infatuation and sorrow, call only ghosts whose teeth draw blood.

All night I was awake. All that came were bad memories. Aching for sweet things lost.

Nothing soothes this longing, for what I once held close, and for what’s never been.

The sun is coming up, and to the east, away from the city, it is blinding.

On the edge of the desert, a square of green dead ends into coarse sand.

Stately and new houses already abandoned, and I was late to the party.

Their are only ghosts here, and skittering shadows inside that don’t know my name.

Coffee at a kitchen table in a house that looks cozy, but demons ruin everything for me.

All my treasures and comforts offer nothing, where I have only time, and my buzzing thoughts.

I can remember the girl that bought me the poster for some obscure Russian art film I loved.

But she is gone, and I am here, and I can’t find where my new friends are waiting for me.

Coffee in a travel cup, a thin sweatshirt and sweatpants, and I’m heading to the desert.

There is an angel there, there is a tower of bright light and ivory, where she welcomes the lost.

She will hear the honeyed prayers and grant me rest, show me the way back to a home in this world.

Out in the desert she waits, the sun would not lie to me, would not lead me astray.

But still, there’s a gun in the glove compartment, if I’m let down one more time.