Sunday, June 28, 2009


Feast in the tireless echo of words gone down
a thousand years before, in the scraping of wood
on rock

Painted pictures that meant something once,
now, a mystery for modern day

Somewhere distant, they sat together
alone in a cave
to recall the progression of time

In the imagination, before there were
descriptions for catastrophe
or accomplishment

There's the code, follow it across
the repetition the repetition
look now, the tiny tattoos everywhere

Scars all over these finger tips
screeching lifeblood, the signature
the forgotten

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Monday, April 20, 2009


The window lets in the air riding down the heavy worn coast
Salt trapped in the membranes, the sandy berms, the tall grasses
Transplanted reefs, underwater worlds, rubber tire fantasies
Running my fingers along the bottom
My hands cut on sharp edges, dirty shells scratching all over
Where there once was, is no longer the same ever after

Split a thousand sides down, time line
River rolling roller coaster, grind
Beware the control of tides
Meant to be wild seafarers,
Retract these holy nets, sifting through the debris
floating out there in heaven

Hands upturned to the glimmer near the surface
Cold friends of whale-grazers, seaweed snakes, micro-whatevers
Kicking desperately on empty density, vast nothingness
Unknown, the ties wrapped around broken tree blooms
Holding on as to not drown down
Where no light bounces through anything refracted

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Gold Lines

Sunday, March 29, 2009


A heavy footfall on an empty stage
the canvas blank for the taking
sunken rope twisting round the grips
A linear tale told in the remembering

Gusts of stale air sinking slowly down
the lights now, the lights reflect off the plumes
and in the dusty, cobwebbed haze

a voice projected to the rafters
to the gods and the sinners who will hear
Token affections and dime-spun phrases
separate singularly between bleeding eyes
swords that will draw a picture perfect scene

Climb now, the anthill
Reach again, for the trees
The hare is hiding, and mother is hunting
for her babies, starving and blind

Bound by the stage, the universe intact
in imagination in sacrifice
the hands come dusting and the curtain drawn
with weeping flowers flying through the air

A drama unfolds in feigned reality
The backdrop a ruse
All the happy pretenders.
The stage, a plot to bury us under.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Wednesday, March 11, 2009


six thousand jagged pieces
throbbing, robbing

the third eye
the tree's roots spreading
underground round

slide down
the mountainside
make a mirror a magic tide

lift the skin until it
snaps back again

hear a familiar voice
on the invisible line
a crosshatch pattern in time

the gristle and grime
all the holy men have gone
to sleep

and in the shadows lurking
a silver tune bellows below
murmur in the chest

and the rest
a story for another day

burning the cinders
the fury and flame