She Stole Herself

Her history is scarred
like her reflection.
She teaches that
steel and makeup
can both cut a man’s soul
when properly applied.

Her voice is viscous
like blood and power.
She preaches that
covenants broken
can sever a lineage
even if the blood remains.

Her grip is unyielding
like a lock without a key.
She seizes those
already stolen assets which
can further her goals
and ends her enemies before dinner.

Dream Journal: 2016-09-30.01

I dreamt…

Of cruel gods and crueler intentions.
Of misery extended by acts of kindness.
And understanding withheld lest the heart fails completely.

I dreamt…

Of game pieces held in place against inertia.
Of webs pulling trapped limbs in unnatural bends.
And the silencing of the fervent prayer lest the game ends prematurely.

I dreamt…

Of the inhumane weeping at the inhumanity.
Of the ignorance that will never be filled.
And the hand seizing mine from widening the bleeding hole in my heart.

I screamed.

Someone Else’s Story

“It’s like this see…”
But you don’t see.
The marks and squiggles bleed into knots.
And the words are harsh against your ear.

“And then, it happens…”
But you remain unmoved.
The epiphany never reveals itself.
And the rocks gain a better understanding than you.

“Once it’s all over…”
But for you it never begun.
The curtain is about to fall.
And you have yet to find the show.

“And now I’ve told you all.”
But you have heard nothing.
The lecture ends with a command to ponder.
And you leave more ignorant than you arrived.

Is this the fault of the voice or the ear?
Were you even supposed to be here?
Who hooked your nose and led your feet?
Who were you supposed to meet?

“I looked and saw…”
But you can’t tell.
No marks or squiggles can pass on your memory.
And the words keep catching in your throat.

“And then, it came…”
But it left no wake.
The epiphany lodges in the folds of your brain.
And your pulse obscures the sound of it fading.

“After it passed…”
Bills are still waiting to be paid.
The show was never meant for others to see.
And you are alone on the stage.

“And now I’ve told you all.”
But you have said nothing.
They were never meant to be understood.
And you are learning why mysteries can’t just be told.

Is this the fault of the voice or the ear?
Were you even supposed to be here?
What hooked your nose and led your feet?
What were you supposed to meet?


Breathe in.
The weightless flow of ageless time rushes in to fill my lungs until there is no room for air nor blood.

Breathe in.
The boundaries hemorrhage as the walls break apart and still my lungs are invaded until they burst inward.

The soul dissolves in the flood of Before and the body becomes a shell for what has devoured it.

The infinite flow reforms Never-Was and places Will-Be upon the throne of flesh, sealing it until the next Time begins.

Breathe out.

The Plea of the Fading Ember

Pour into my veins.
Drive out the salt and the water.
Be the presence that holds me up.
And the force that drives me forward.

Infect me, each and every cell.
Rewrite me until I require you to live.
Inoculate me from forgetfulness.
And prepare me for the moment of my passing.

Weaken my grasp on absolutes.
Tear my vision from stable illusions.
Open me to futures already lived.
And the pasts still waiting to be revealed.

Dream Journal: 2015-07-20.01

Deep water lies still before me.
Waiting for what always comes.
As sure as the headwaters split the rock blocking it.
As sure as the tide returns to the sea.
As sure as the river flows to the ocean.
As sure as it is waiting for me.

Deep water lies still before me.
Waiting for my erosion to complete.
As sure as the blood flows through my veins.
As sure as the tears that clean my sight.
As sure as the thirst that can never be quenched.
As sure as it is waiting for me.


Bloodied hands made soft through violence.
How is it the very thing that would destroy me
upholds me when I have lost the ability to stand?

Holy destruction that cannot be assuaged.
Your shelter has saved me from myself
and from the blows of those unlawful works.

How is it you are not my enemy?
I do not understand the love that drives you
to stand over me as guardian, even from your own.

Divine paradox, I am grateful for your company.
And while the light you cast throws shadows in disarray,
your presence is a reminder there is recovery, even for me.


Though you be almost ageless
you are ever still the tender slut
that first emerged without blemish
from churning restless Okeanos.
They say you were quick to be clothed
though no cloth could ever hide
that fragrant skin that shames roses
or the shape of that perfect thigh.
It would take more than poetry
to describe the enveloping folds
of your moistened luring lips
that speak with no sound uttered.
Lean over me and focus my gaze
with twin points of vanity reminding
that not all apples grow on trees
and not all fruits are attainable.
Though your cunt be smith-owned
(on paper and in myths as if they count)
let me not forget that it is the only power
that can sheath war without destruction.

Io Jupiter!

I see that smirk!
That boyish grin brightly boasting
behind that too damn old grizzled scheming beard.
Cheeky shit.
I’m totally blaming you, I hope you know.
And by blaming,
I mean thanking,
because I know it’s not by accident
you let your hand be seen.
Not all tricks are played in spite.
Sometimes fortune does favor
fools and babes
and me.
Wheels in motion tend to stay in motion
and I have seized this one the best that I could
under the circumstances
now rushing in crackling fervor
down a mountain of consequences
pondering if an eruption is better suited instead.

Fickle mercy.
The same hand that hints with nudges
could just the same plant me deep into irresistible fate.
Chaotic order.
I’m totally all in, I hope you know.
And by all in,
I mean making an “in”,
because I know coincidences missed
bear no fruit in the end.
Not all tricks are magic and arcane.
Sometimes fortune is naught but
the end of a round
of play.
Wheels at rest tend to stay at rest
and I have taken your gift the best that I could
to seek the hub
now crackling in electric fervor
across a field of quaking graves
waiting for an eruption to strike me dead.