In twilight’s moment,
Where the black forest stirs,
Amongst a coyote’s howl for prey,
A burned away chapel two hundred years ago,
Remains a marble alter, a slab wall, and a story,
The sheen of dew shimmers in moon glow.

In a neighboring field, crooked tombstones
Jut up from the ground,
As if these victims eternally try to escape the fires.

These tablets, dressed in dried moss, bear worn out names,
Unpreserved only by ancient lore,
Known by locals who visit at this time to lay flowers and flags.

And behind it all, those rampant woods
Weave through each other like a fence,
Spreading up a rounded mountain,
Where brown bears graze on blackberries,
And rusted car skeletons lay buried in decomposition,
Providing shelters for wasps and field mice.

Headlights attached to my heart flip inside,
And out of the random,
I recall these gurlgling streams that ran like veins
Into deposits where beavers assembled their dams.
These secret lands, where stone trails were built,
By Union Soldiers in the Civil War,
Where I’d walk alone in youthful contemplation.

The church is a stop on the curving road,
Where “country driving” happens,
Where wild turkeys and red foxes meander across,
Where the world has been touched gently over the period of Humans.
It is here, I’ve locked away a peace that echoes
When I need it the most.

It is here, my bare feet squash the soft grass
In search of pinhead wild strawberries,
In search of connecting a beautiful, but melancholy past,
With a beautiful, meaningful present.

I ask, will you join me, or have you already?


Cool as ice, I am a calmer, collected self
Than I once was.
That is me in the reflection of my black tea,
The one I always wanted to be.

Warm as condensation, I am an aware, energized self
Than i once was.
The sun, the beach, the breeze,
Even I am amazed by my presence,
From a sad, melancholy history.

In love, as wave and shore, I am a confident, determined self
Than I once was.
Higher up the ladder of life.
And I am asking the lifeguard up top,
If they have ever saved someone.

A Lullaby For Our Concerns

We defy the malignant fears,
And we see the miracle like a meteor bedazzlement.
Inside those terrors, those morbid feelings,
That paint over skies at night in specter & awe,

The Homeland you once belonged to darkened.
The callous grip on your peoples’ voices to escape,
Those dilapidated houses, and reveal their song

Withheld them all.

We all have a dream,
To scour the land of life anew and lush,
To cleanse the oceans to their origins,
To regain a proper balance of acceptance and gratitude.
We see the outcome as a key to a destiny,

Enlightenment, answers, and more merrily accepted questions.
But still, truth remains absent, somewhere beyond the malignant fears.

Love Me Syndrome

Love Me Syndrome

Another tempestuous night in Town Park, melancholy

Wild Thoughts, seeks harbor from the fell dampness.

Across an old Maple, restroom facilities, in a stall,

His Swiss Knife carves, help!- a grounded cardinal,

Over faded, besought scratches, then his number.


The windows behold an ashen canvas, dashing away

A lustrous moon, sour lampposts, the path back & ahead,

But in buckets of rain, runs a scarlet damsel his way.

Wild Thoughts escapes on some path, Love Me Syndrome

Skips past roley- poley earthworms stuck in puddles.


The gales deepen in fury. By the Maple, a scarlet,

Melancholy soul runs to the restroom, closes the stall.

She sees unspeakable markings, one freshly concerning.

A knife on the basin, she dials the splintered number,

My name is Lonesome Dove, I’ve waited a long time for you.


A calm develops, drenched footsteps echo anticipations.

The beautiful ones, raised to know what comes & goes,

But not what stays- saturated under fluorescent sight,

They sparkle. Lonesome Dove eases five minutes in.

Your real name isn’t Wild Thoughts. Care to know mine?


From outside, a whip of lightning licks the Maple,

Crackling, thickly green branches smoke up, catch fire.

They ponder a tragic moment. Is it you? He knows, It’s

Me. Tragedy. She flies, red tail vanishing in the rain.


That night, a tornado brewed, ravaging Town Park.

Love Me Syndrome claimed one, but not the other.



Our lives are zephyrs
In hot Summers of love,
Not just to exist,
But each with this unique, determined purpose.
All the while,
We combat, kiss, kill, care.
We are savages, hostiles, heroes, the hope, servants, Kings & Queens,
We are peace and we are war.

But at first,
We are whatever,
Satisfied in any direction,
Coerced by gusts and birds,
To formulate our own purpose,
Where we grow into our ambitions,
And eventually, restless-

Mind, body, soul
From within,
With a trinity of agreed certainty,
Will leap to the tip of the tongue,
Like a gold finch’s first flight into the serene,
To Drizzle fantastic colors beyond rainbows over
The torpid hues of a day in the life,
Over others lost in the dark,
Or withheld by excess of light,
Or stuck in the grey,
Ones who haven’t tasted a breath of fresh air in ages,
And for that, they have gone mad.

Dreamy Realism

Dreamy Realism

Quiet cities scare citizens,
Scratches upon metal grated ramps,
Into the hollow subway lit by
Flickit flourescents.
Hidden under the hyacinth,
We would sip chamomile tea and chatter about
The branches of life spreading from the tree of existence.

Wise Enough To Know That I’m Not Wise Enough


In the act of eyes, I’ve judged with momentum,

A sweeping weakness of mine

That leaves an innocent soul to wander the desert of desire,

Digging up sands of sparkles that disintegrate with the push of wind.

To learn that the only thing that is worse than fear is hunger,

Love is a danger, and everyone’s a victim,

Love is a blessing, and some are gifted with its grace.

How I swear, and how I close my eyes,

To watch the sun rise, in pallets of orange, red, and tan,

And to watch the fireball drop,

Into oceans, behind mountains, under sheets of glowing ice.

Even as wise as I think I am, I’m astounded by how little I understand.

Springing from a coil of disbelief, to raise my hopes like waves on a full moon,

Is a rare cosmic occurrence.

History of its past resembles the beheaded chicken on the block,

Dumb bastard…

The full moon elicits blood from the savage.

And a hunger for prey that seems so small in the act of your eyes,
That your judgements could harm a fly.


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