When We Meet Again... |
Show me that they didn't win.
Stay
friend.
Holding my hand in the witching hour,
her tears fall into my eyes.
She knows just why i cry.
This is a fool's paradise
and an ingenious para...
Posted by on Mon, 28 Jul 2008 03:00:00 GMT |
The Other Eyes |
Somewhere at the edge o' the distance, all things wait to shatter innocence. Unrest and the open country threaten sanity and light.
Meantime, in the midst of existence, between all that is great...
Posted by on Mon, 10 Dec 2007 03:00:00 GMT |
This Ol Boat |
achin' moans of those po' souls
how much longer will they row
this ol' boat, this ol boat
beneath the sea, they know she be
just waiting...that serpentine.
hunger fed not by blood but&...
Posted by on Sun, 09 Dec 2007 03:00:00 GMT |
Town Square |
The town square is jumping with enthusiasm. He is to be killed tonight.
No pardon. This is it.
The town square is alive. We're all sick. Hellish desire.
No pardon. This is it.
The town square is ever...
Posted by on Sat, 08 Dec 2007 03:00:00 GMT |
Black Feathers |
This is where he can be a good man again. i know...
and you too
that his path is crowded with our ghosts. Something like a dirge ringing in the distance, as he walks,
they just cast those odd g...
Posted by on Fri, 07 Dec 2007 03:00:00 GMT |
Imperial |
i die by her again...
This happens everytime. She laughs because she is my haunting ember that leads backwards in December.
Burn my troubles forever in brimstone glow.
They don't kno...
Posted by on Thu, 06 Dec 2007 03:00:00 GMT |
Beautiful Convergence |
Congos are beaten as bones rattle in the mist.
They've waited so long for this. Only one can win.
Only one can walk away with a grin. When it is done only one shall live.
Rites of passage...
Posted by on Wed, 05 Dec 2007 03:00:00 GMT |
Every Harvest |
It's not smoke, it's locusts.
They're never satisfied. Every harvest they fly
and land
in the fields she tilled by hand.
Poor Magdalene. She'll never make them leave,
though she tries and tries with ...
Posted by on Mon, 03 Dec 2007 03:00:00 GMT |
Aluminum Screen Door |
He was a hard workin' country boy. His father was a farmer. Hands caught in the blades of a feeder auger.
Miles and miles he walked to get there, to that old aluminum screen door. 2 crimson sticks h...
Posted by on Sun, 02 Dec 2007 03:00:00 GMT |
Popsickle Sticks |
Recess had just ended and we'd all been sharpening our popsickle sticks on the concrete walls that ran 'round the playground.
When 3 pm arrived, we'd walk away with our wooden knives. 113 bloodtrails...
Posted by on Sat, 01 Dec 2007 03:00:00 GMT |
