Cut Scene

Whispers like missiles wind through snarled wires
Emanating from rooms in skulls with fearful conspirers
Trying desperately to rearrange some letters in prose
Designed to portray them in drastically distorted roles

I know I shouldn’t care, the source of flare non-credible
Though imagination projecting something rather dreadful
Heads on spears on embattlements with cauldrons pouring solvent
And steer-rearing armored knights who deny all involvement

Shamefully, however you lay it out its comic
Trying to impress people I can hardly stomach
In self psychosis state finding the genuine is rare
Though you’d like to think you’re cool enough not to even care

But the flesh is relentless and the spirit gets bemused
Unrecognizable, those two drag you to the wolves accused
And faced with reality gnashing, your fate a choice
Escape artist wriggles out the cuffs finding his voice

Awkward tableau with wolves, flesh and spirit, the lot
Trying to remember all the signature moves you forgot
From zero to a symphony of atoms buzzing cut scene
Time to reassess what the symbols under the cabinet mean


Tuesday Morning

The shadows of Rome loom long in her mind, as
long as the shadows from the city skyline tickling the
nape of her neck. The coffee shop door sticks more than usual
as she pushes inside; scents to scents. The same wool suit
and red tie hanging beneath tired eyes breath a kind dust
behind the counter. The coffee is not why she comes again and again,
though she couldn’t tell you why.

Sitting now, looking out the window into the coming dawn, she
wondered if the sun dangled from the string of a marionette puppeteer
who had become bored.

And there she felt a stir; within a safe within a room within
a house within a fence she heard a breath. As well as one can hear a breath
behind a safe behind a door behind a wall behind a fence. In
between the warm rays through glass and the scents separate from scents
and the kind dust she felt like she could hop the fence. Break the
window. Pick the lock. Crack the code.

Then someone bumped the puppeteer. The strings lost tension and she was
sucked out that door; the memory of its slight stick crying out to
be remembered as it was engulfed by the black hole of 7th avenue.

The Theoretical Construct of the Tragedy of Death

Bukowski told us
it’s possible to love a human
being if you don’t know them too well.
What a handicap
to place upon the brow of
our greatest gift. Love yourself and others the
same. Second, but
fiercer. In doing this within the
time we have been gifted leaves the end
empty. Void of
any real threat to the moments
woven within a song bravely sung. Only a
fool thinks death
erases all the gifts left to
give. The absence is always outweighed by a
life well lived.


We move like swing sets,
the rag-doll fox and I.
Purchased at an antique store
to consider me from her shelf.

Naked green eyes.

I want that swell behind my
She wants paper airplanes and
trying your best.

Our melancholy rests between us.


To find out how

I’ve traveled miles in pursuit of my salvation
So many friends embraced just as strong as my vices foul

I’ve gone through phases and faces and spaces
For years
I’ve captured experiences and laughter and moments
And fears

I’ve passed through everything passing through me
A hundred suns lighting all I could see

And all I could see was all that there was
Each joy and scar and their dance through my loves

All the mystery therein and wonder I could find
I could just sit in the middle of it all and unwind


That is all done now.

In these shards is richness
In these bones some gold
In your eyes a quickness
A lightning-laughter within the fold

It is all beginning now.


Uncover the swell of nerves, the second thoughts
The pounding of my fear from within its box

Each stilted perfect line of logic heeding caution
Falls victim to our choice, fierce will in blossom

One heart shedding light on that deep room locked within
Once reserved for love unspoken for family and deepest sin

We’ll go through places and faces and spaces
And fears
We’ll embrace each other as we build our legacy
For years

Falling towards your falling towards all good will allow
I think we’ve many miles of hand holding left

To find out how

Faithful Fabric

Oh, my poor soul.

It is always preparing for,
longing for,
the happiness for which it was woven.

Those moments between blocks,
between clocks, between the toil
of what seems the impossible task
of securing our false securities.

Even when captured, serenity, we
balk in her presence. For that clamor
we escape is greedy indeed, pulling at
our time and attention, seeking to
destroy the seeds of peace within
our fabricated storms.

The world, it seems, has little patience
for those who tire of its antics.

My essence, my spirit, should abandon
ship! What faith it is imbued with to remain
aboard this vessel; bending its being to cater to.
What strength needed to stay, tattered and
torn, retaining its patient form.

Though I hear its cries.

I hear them in those times-between-times.
As the day turns itself inside out,
as the lighting of my mind reflects nature-
sun setting, both sides of the coin overlapped.

On the precipice of each mini-oblivion that
punctuates even my prime, the same soft
sentiment echoes from within. Glancing
whispers from that radiant servant indentured
to the paltry needs of the physical and forced:

“Why are you so far from saving me?”


What can I say?

Today is the best day.

I read somewhere that true beauty throws open the doors to something else.
Points to something greater.
Paradoxically breaks the chains of desire and reminds you of something you never knew but contains every joy from every ounce of good ever felt since the beginning of time.

I read all that stuff years ago. And there were some times I felt I knew what it all meant. I didn’t.

But today, I think I’m starting to.

What can I say?

My wife has this radiance. And it is distracting.

Hopeless (The Wolf)

I want for nothing save
the safe construction of our home.
I want for nothing save
the painstaking effort in building
something to call our own.


What is the point
when I know I will lose hope?
I will give up,
I will let the darkness overtake.

That is the point.
I know I will lose hope.
I will give up,
I will let the darkness overtake.

I am always all I am.
Am I all I could be?

One day that wolf will come down
from the mountain.
The mountain that is so far away.

My faith like a flashlight
paling to the black.
Catching the tracks and serrated breath
lingering in the cold air
as the wolf bounds just ahead.
Just beyond.

Exhaling curses under my breath,
our whispering traces mingle.
Whipping the light through the trees,
pounding the casing and regretting
never changing those batteries.

A threat dissolving with the night.
Absorbing my resolve.
And I will have nothing.

Nothing but

That which we built.
Descending sword will meet our hilt.
Let us not allow our humanity
to stain our consciences with guilt.

While both mountain and wolf are far away,
let us build something to hold onto
come that trying day.