Lion’s Wake – A Poem

Lion’s wake.
We hear the old saw blade at rest.

I watch with nervous apprehension
the sun shine through the fog;
The morning hills rolling green under
the hazy weight of an
early light.

The pull of earth’s gravity
makes is hard for me to breathe.

I want to make a phone call
but lost any reason to do so,

so I end up doing the dishes.

Finches sing.
They dart in and out of nests
built into the rotting
of the shed’s wood panels
and frame.
Its roof collapsing slowly.

Juxtapose the broken glass
and the wire fence.
How they both still keep us
fastened and

It was three years ago
Three years.
And where are we?

What are we?

An exposed shadow in a
closed circuit.



Oracle of Regret – A Poem

Old railcars on an unused line
stand forgotten. Decay.
All rust.
And overgrown weeds.

I regret this fortune.

It was never our intention that night
but then the wild moon
and the orange dress
and the curve of the river.
There was the devil at the store front
window splattered in blood who
raffled bondage.

“It’s just a skip stone step ladies
and gentlemen. Just a skip stone
step. Here you go.
Here you

Holding hands we laughed
at our dark reflections. The smell
of liquorice bringing a hell
unlike anything
we expected.

“Samuel, Samuel, why do you talk about the rail cars?”
She moved with a pretentious walk which
I venerate

Rust settles into my bones
and weeds claw at my lungs.

The air was hot and humid
and with how her hips
shaped that dress…
never mind. Along the tree
lined thoroughfare, the cries
were drowned out
by music from a nearby

Her breath was so close
and the river so

Rail cars stand neglected.
I am the fortunate oracle of regret.

We were complicit in a mutual
denial. Her lips on me.
“Why the railcars, dear Samuel?”
My hand on her thigh
just a skip stone

The water pooled and swirled. A vision
of stars was muted.

Private Asylum – A Poem

There are never any images in my mind.
Only words.
Or more specifically the shadows of words.
You don’t understand.
I am not a living soul.
Or a living man.
Just a ruined afterthought.

We step outside and into
our private asylum.
A strangling maze strips
us and closes
all about.

It’s raining.
I pull up an umbrella and under it
we listen to the water fall.
The puddles freeze.

You recall how one time on a drive as a child the sunlight
came through the windshield
of your father’s truck
bathing the cabin in a sickly whiteness
and highlighting the deep cracks and crevices
on the skin of his left hand
which gripped the steering wheel in a lazy confidence,
slightly off center,

to the right.
“There was this customonial boundary
that I became aware of, then,” you tell me. “A limitation
imposed in all of us by design.”

I become frightened by this
and would shut my eyes
but fear losing you if I should.

“And how this barrier is real.
How it roots an eternal
and separates our perception.
It’s a garden that exists in the paradise
of a scorched earth.
There is a beauty in how
desperate it is.”

Jupiterian Orbit – A Poem

Check the thesaurus for my horoscope.

I’m an associate by guilt,
at the table,
bragging on about how cells lock down
the open frontier.
Wild West Maître D’ signals cryptic
pen taps
(tap-te-tap tap-te-te-tap tap) to the
Underworld Boss for a dance
floor hustle.

They strike me as the unruly sort
of couple.

Oh, but your be stilled aerie becomes a gaseous
membrane; a monument to
the proportional
distance of sanity. I force myself into the
water beads on my vodka tonic glass and

absorb the world.

Little eyes and thorny beaks
interrupt an otherwise pleasant
They are the shadows of a catastrophe.
They keep us ahead of the

“I think these crows here mate in a
Jupiterian orbit. If not, what would be
the point?”

My hand is bloody and I forgot the name
of the waiter.
We partisan to a fault so to
jettison the rest to posterity.

I don’t know an early hour from a late

Hegemony – A Poem

We were young.

We were young…
and the faces
all dead.

A matter of hegemony.

Here it is one AM
and I hate the shape of
your mouth.
But at the beginning,

at that pink beginning

there was between us
a marginal trust
as we
clung to cracks in the volcanic rock
at the edge of an organic

I won’t pretend.
Not with the waves and the
mist and the laughter
on the sage scented breeze.

It was too
delicate to pretend.

It was
all indebted to us.

A lightsphere covers over the red.
We left only white
and oily, black mud.

The Small God – A Poem

Cover our daughter. Instill in her
a locust heart.
It is not a covenant we can make.

She in the den with rich mahogany eyes
reads Milton with distrust.
“How far is love?
Is it boundless as the green?” she asks,

and I am held breathless.

Captive and suffering.

“There is a danger in the silhouette, you see?
The sheer guise it represents,
the madness that’s found in the contours
of the body.

Contempt drives us, though. It is our one shared
virtue,” she laughs

while crossing the room, the light slowly failing
with each step
against her rising shadow.

Her arms are defenseless, and yet they respond
only with pearled indifference
to the slightest touch
of chill in the air.

She shifts the weight of her loneliness delicately
into me. She grows
as I diminish
beneath her.

I am the small god worthlessly seeking penance.
Fastened to the stone. Cast into the dark under-
of a deprived world.

She devours my restraints.

Out and beyond the waking sun drifts blind.
The countryside falls into ruin.

The Prophecy of Rain – A Poem

If we could disguise our minds
crimson dark and rest under
the emotional imbalance it
may afford, what then?

And what now?

I don’t bring salvation. Only
interruptions between waves
of seclusion.

Bring us together.

Where white streets bleed into
the yellow sky
I overhear a lover’s confession, shared
tenderly, secretly on
angels breath, and feel my flesh crawl.

The prophecy of rain beats into us. It’s
life attested. A crawling illusion
of self
sundered, seeping into cracks
of adopted skin.

Electric winds blow.

Trace lines of communication. To
remain oblivious, we speak.
Words desperately littered into instruments
of our own abandonment. But


let’s go. Let’s watch as the oregano blooms
in the garden.
Our feet cooled by bare stones.