Ink Swell

I am not the man
in the ink
no matter how
much I rip
at the page
or spit verse
into the abyss.

I am nothing

but a palsied hand
with a pen
shaken by the spirits
until the words

fall out.

Unavoidable Consequence of Birth

We are an army
of discarded carnival prizes
scavenging pity
from thrift store zombies
waiting for the day
we can rise up
and destroy
the mirrors
that reveal us to be
used,
torn,
and soiled.

But breaking glass
takes energy
and makes a mess.
Besides,
I better behave
just in case

there are gods.

Ode to an Emo Unicorn

I wish I could write a happy
unicorn poem
or maybe
some pretty words about
a field of flowers.

Unfortunately,
my unicorn is
shooting up heroin
with a second hand needle
in a poppy field
infected with landmines
somewhere in Afghanistan.

I really wish I could write
a happy unicorn poem.

One Angel at a Time

She was talking again.
Her voice
was hushed and holy.

I never knew
who she was talking to
I assumed spirits
or gods
but a few words
may have been meant for me.

The words tripping from her lips
were frozen angels
toppling earthbound
and smashing like glass
on the ill lit street.

"Plagues are just invitations
to come back home."

I looked down
upon the fragile
melting angels
slowly being replaced
by my reflection
in the wet asphalt
and waited
for the world to drown
one word at a time.

In Defense of the Soulless

When I fall into myself
there is no bottom to hit.

I merely gain momentum
until I break apart
and become communion
for the universe.

Particles drifting amid
the debris
collating into
a future
as bright or bleak
as I make it.

Vardøger Infinitum

I wake as a stranger
with someone else’s memories.

A future
condemned to
predict the past.

Throughout the day,
I grow into my skin
and when it almost fits...
I glimpse my image
in the periphery
and fall into bed
with myself.

Later,
I wake as a stranger
with someone else’s memories.

Faith’s Formula

Puzzle pieces
are not lost by chance.

Mathematical angels
discovered that putting
together certain pieces
from different puzzles
revealed the
face of God.

Jealously,
they steal the pieces
to keep us
from seeing the Divine
and eliminating
our need for faith.

(After all, who needs faith
when you have proof.)

Soulactive

When he wasn't looking,
they tied rocks
to his soul
and laughed
when he walked away
from himself.

Unaware he was
soulless,
he gave birth to poems,
pursued justice,
protected a nation,
and held his wife's hand
from his youth
to the grave.

Soon after he died,
they found his soul
and mourned.

I still don’t know why.

Shopping Cart Angels

She picks a thorny rose
and clenches it in her hand
until blood drips
down the stem.

She touches it
to paper
intending to
write the story
of her life.

After a while,
it spills forth
a shopping list
that ends up
in the hands
of her husband
who discards
it in a Wal-Mart
shopping cart.

(Later, angels
steal away the list
and weep --for it is a very sad story.)

Parking Lot Communion

On cold nights,
she drinks whiskey
in church parking lots
long after the faithful
have left.

She falls to her knees,
raises her face to the night,
and watches
petite puffs of breath
carry her requests
for forgiveness
beyond the streetlights
to whatever gods

they may find.

Geography of Loneliness

She keeps
a jar of fingerprints
under her pillow.
Each print
lifted from a lover
that tasted her flesh
long ago.

Late at night,
she lays on her bed
pours them
over her body
and becomes
a map
describing a trip
with no destination.

Fortune Seller

She sits on
a soot covered couch
in the remains
of a church
that burned down
last year.

The remnants of God
hover over her.
(Spindly tendrils trailing
to her lips
where they are imprisoned
in a yellowed filter
with each drag
of her cigarette.)

She spits my fate
as she picks her teeth
with a Tarot card
and I fall
a little closer
to God.