love, poetry, purpose, women


Suns first blush

Letting you sleep awhile

Stealing away to the page

But I’ll return

This is no secret

How I’ve always known

This connection to a process

I’ve worn as armour

Laid beneath like a blanket fort

And you’ve never sought to

Steal it from me

So here, between pages,

A kiss of phonemes and analogies

Fresh hot tea

And the spry quiet expression

I have when I’ve attended to

The grand works and so here

My attention, offered and accepted,

Steal back to bed and close my eyes

Breathe you in

As you move towards

Me, compelled by gravity

Of fulfilled purpose

men, poetry


He floats


Sealed in twice over

Reality will kill him

And the suit he wears

Keeps him alive

But the stars call

And he wants to bask

In their light

Without a barrier


In space

In time

Sometimes he wants

Someone to tell him

He’s good at what he does

But he fears it might

Expose him

An aside, a withdrawal

Like a stray meteorite

Punching through with

Silent velocity

Space is lonely

For the astronaut

But he remains as long

As there’s air to breathe

beauty, love, poetry, sex, women

monsters and reflections

I know my monster

Greying fur shimmering

In the twilight

It has my eyes

It lives in the forest

Far from causal insult

Its claws are clean

Short because it

Relies more on force

Than precision but

It can be gentle

Conscientious but not so much

It becomes a pet

Asleep wherever you’re

Looking to walk to

It knows love

And serves as its gamekeeper

When grief steals in

And cuts, my monster

Retreats until the scars

Turn silver like its fur,

It is drawn to wild honey

Erudition and capriciousness

Served with amused regard

I know my monster

And in so doing

Reach to a state of

Earthen grace.

men, poetry

the devil has no fur

The devil has no fur

Nor horns

It is gnawed and emasculated,

Glistening stitches

Tucking everything away

He is a breath held to the

Point of agony

He speaks of the micro

Small, bitter worms falling

From his thin lips

Sexless, cold and wet,

He keeps the receipts

And denies the refund

People ask for

Without explanation,

All the pieces you gave,

Kept away and the phantom

Pain stays with you,

The devil is not a man

Or a woman,

Which, as he stands there,

Smiling with exquisite agonies,

Makes him




men, poetry

Walking Through Shadows

Eaten in pieces

Mouthfuls of time

Anxious feast

A melancholic assassin

Waiting for the target

To leave

Just once


To be worth

Someone’s attention

Without feeling


You can be elevated


Mocked and still have

No idea if anything

Good will come of it

But the strength is there

And you’ve borne anguished

Wounds before and amongst

The ones you gave

There were lessons

Which stitched together

And although the scars pull

With each step,

Hold her hand.


Wherever you are going

Without knowing how far

They’ll walk with you.


A Shared Cigarette

He tries not to cling too

Much but does she

Feel what takes wing

Inside him when he

Looks at her?

Ask if they’re ok

Afraid of the answer,

Afraid to even ask

The question

For fear of the answer

He remains apart

Because to become

An open clumsiness

Invites its own defeat

So they breathe one another in

Like a shared cigarette,

He watches her,

Hoping she might see

Or hoping she isn’t

And everything is




love, poetry

Good Men Waiting

Tell me of

The good men

Loyal, self contained

Always smiling at the

Thought of being touched

They wait for their women

To finish work.

Walk them home,

Talk about a day when

She stays there,

Imagining the clip of

Knife against chopping board

Waiting for him to come home

To her

Hands on her hips,

But some part of him

Always stands guard over her,

Not saying anything

But doing and letting

His actions speak for him,

Waiting for his woman.