love lost

That I could walk in peace, though past sins grieved,

Or look upon the morning sun with relative ease.

My path is writ in time sharpened stones, and

I cannot find my way back home; indeed found

Lost amidst the bitter fog of yesterday’s deeds.

I cried out loud, will forgiveness descend, or strike

Me now my bitter end, and none did hear but the

Raven’s caw; portend my shame and final fall.

Oh, that I could rewind and once again live as though

Merciful God would kindly give; but He would not,

And time is waning. My downward spiral is near complete

And draws now deep and final sleep. I shall not waken to

Tomorrow’s light, I cannot make what’s wrong now right.

And so my words, as sure they must

Eulogize me as they would the falling dust.

Poets and Prostitutes


He was a lover of street prostitutes;
not the sable-wrapped uptown girls
bathed in Chanel No.5 and punishing Daddy
by selling their tight-toned wares retail,
but rather those wholesale working-class girls
perfumed by the sweat of their labors;
standing beneath broken streetlights at 2 a.m.,
in cheap, colorful makeup and Wal-Mart lingerie,
with asses bubbling back and semi-flaccid breasts;
those colorful painted whores of the night.

In his youth, he had been scorched by the beautiful
and he would never again have the fevered yearning
of lying with flesh more pliant and comely.

Street-walkers fed his pathos and filled his inner void.
They would let him kiss them on the mouth,
and wouldn’t complain when he couldn’t get hard
because of too much beer and whiskey.

They’d always wait patiently, filing their nails,
chewing open-mouthed wads of gum –
but most of all, they would never, ever
fill the silence with meaning-less chatter.

If he couldn’t function, they didn’t condemn him,
but would play with themselves upon request
so at least the failing of the hour felt sexy.

Most of all, they didn’t lie!

They wouldn’t tell him what a great lover he was
or offer up false platitudes on his endowment;
They used their real names and would share their coke
for an extra twenty-five, and he would pour them full shots.

Sometimes, he would write beautiful sonnets for them
and they would genuinely be moved to tears.

If the sex was lousy, they took it in stride and didn’t bitch.
They didn’t conspicuously spit into folded Kleenex
or stuff their mouths with wads of spearmint gum
after he had come, just to lose the taste of him.
Rather, they swallowed because they, too, didn’t care
if they got one more filthy, fucking disease.

They were like him; defeated and empty,
just grateful not to be judged and discarded
like yesterday’s rotten fruit.

i never had a plan for you


you push and pull, like wolves at the door,
and all i hear is this discordant humming.
you play only the black keys, the sharp keys,
and your music screams of pain.
but isn’t that the choice?

we’ve come a long and lonely way
to owe ourselves to wolves
each howl a dying little light of the soul
i don’t remember, did we take this road together?
did you see our wings fold together?

you have a wanderlust growing in your soul
and live where ashes take the form of houses
all around the grounds we see a flashlight metronome,
that skips to sleep in leaps, lock and key, or latchkey…
a house you tricked empty because
you knew they would take it back, piece by piece.

who do we let it in? do we have a choice?
you said you don’t even like to be seen
in the parking lot, beneath the moon
and the drinking of the glass…
whatever the hell that means

i’m sorry again for everything i’ve been
and all the things i wasn’t
i’d sink to your city streets if i wasn’t buried in your hands
there is nothing out there; i do not hear what you hear
regardless of everything, i came to know you as a relic
you are ashes falling between my burnt fingers

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House of Pain

Go into the house of pain,
and dwell there one full, dark night;
say nothing which would reveal
your despair and look to no man
with aching desperation.

Sit there, alone
and consider how this anguish
causes the gentle evolution of
your weak and pitiful human spirit.

Note how little by little
time eats away at you like
razor-toothed slum rats,
feasting upon the sinew of
your pitiful soul.

One full dark and lonely night.
Reflect and know the meaning
of being banished to this
accursed piece of hell
we so lovingly call earth.

Wrap your arms around your
feeble and trembling knees;
rock to and fro, gently, while
the knowledge of what it truly means
to be separated from God
comes washing over you
like molten lava;
burning past flesh to thought.

Just one cold and empty,
dark and dreadful night.
If you then have either the desire
or the strength remaining
rise to your pathetic ape-like stance
and step forward once more
into another day of this
charade we call life.

Walking Alone





Walking alone in the cool gray light of morning,
silently stalking my elusive thoughts
and not quite caring should I find them or not,
it suddenly occurs to me that
morning is not a time for thoughts,
but rather a time for feeling.

Walking alone in the cool gray light of morning,
silently stalking my elusive feelings
and not quite caring should I find them or not,
it suddenly occurs to me that
morning is not a time for feeling,
but rather a time for sleeping.

Sleep-walking alone in the cool gray light of morning,
silently stalking neither my thoughts or my feelings,
and not quite caring should I ever
think or feel again,
it suddenly occurs to me that
it’s not morning at all,
and this cool gray light is but an illusion,
keeping me away from my thoughts and feelings.