The Fisherwhore.

I’m looking for a pretty lady with a fishhook mouth.

Her breath is bated

and she’s hangs on,

waiting for prey on riverside streets.

Stairway to Heaven

The sky is a gold cloud river
And the sun,
Ten boats of lanterns
On the Styx.

Talking ‘bout My Gen.

We are a generation of


I am a part of this apathy of ours.

The Flip Side.

I hide my heart behind steel shields

Threading the glass of it with platinum

And tucking it behind mirrors

So you can only see the reflection.

To let you in is rare,

To let you dwell a myth,

It’s been broken a dozen times before I learned better.

(Mind the shatter on the floor and beware your fingers,

Hold too tight and I cut, but hold too softly, and I break.)

Stormhearts abreaking.

Lightning will dance with lightning;

but I was the rod,

you lanced out from the sky

and you left me at a loss

when you left the same way.

The Bus to Home.

Flashing past fields under afternoon winter sun

warm on our window

rolling and shined purple-pink

from nodding seed heads

a waving sea of silvered grass

and the horizon is a mountain range

hazed and haloed behind my sunglasses

just in the distance

and if I could,

I would keep driving towards it,



we wake at midnight,

and go to sleep

when our sons stumble home,


Deluding Self

We create in sorrow.

We press our hands to coffee cups

and drink it bitterest black.

We paint our fingernails purple

and wear long loose shirts with low cut collars.

We pretend that we’re okay.

Deeply unprofound.

There are cracks on this iPod screen

and I feel them with the bitten quick of my thumbs

where the skin is liable

to follow the groove.

It catches at it,

a latch that doesn’t quite

like to let go.

Son of the Devil.

We are the bitterest words

The artist could conceive,

Bearing down

And birthing

A black ichor that stung.