Intelligent Ash

Syringa

2010-05-06T19:18:00.000-07:00

Even though the funerals
were fabulous,
he mourned suicidal lilac trees.

The fragrance drifted
throughout his synapses
teasing old ghosts
to throw off their nooses
and breathe the pungent scent
deeply into their freeze dried
lungs.

It never quite worked
and the ghosts
hung themselves
back on their tree
embarrassed
at their impassioned
bid for rebirth.

Skipping Hearts

2010-02-21T17:38:00.000-08:00

He collected hearts
of stone
in a bucket
and set them
by the water
so strangers
could skip them
on the lake.

Soon the lake
filled with rocks
and the ripples turned
to echoes
that fell on the ears
of deaf devils
plotting to destroy
a world that had
died long ago.

Button Pushing

2010-02-21T17:28:00.000-08:00

Sex
is the power
button
to a human
gene splicing machine
that has yet
to be approved
by any regulatory
agency.

Thought Boxing

2010-02-21T16:40:00.000-08:00

A politician
is a box full of boxes.

Empty packaging
that gives hope of substance
but only delivers
disappointment
box after box after
box.

Interstate Ascension

2009-11-29T19:07:00.000-08:00

I talked to a guy
outside of the Cracker Barrel
in Lenoir City, Tennessee
and he assured me
that God would be there soon.

Ironically, the guy at the
rest stop on Interstate 77
between Cambridge, Ohio
and Parkersburg, West Virginia
said the same thing.

This got me wondering.

So, I began asking
other people along
my route the same question,

"Is God supposed to be here soon?"

Except for the young lady
instructing me
that she had a gun
and wasn't afraid
to use it,
the answer was:
God will be here soon.

I was so excited.
This couldn't be coincidence!
All those people couldn't be wrong.

I decided to wait.

But after an hour
with no sign of God,
I got a little fidgety
and started asking around.

No one in the rest area
at the Alabama Welcome Center
claimed to be God
nor did anyone
at the Cracker Barrel
in Fort Payne
but I found more women
with guns at both locations.

So, I jumped to the only logical conclusion.

I must be God.

At that realization,
I could feel
the universe welling up
inside of me.
I could feel the pull of Galaxies
on my mind
and the awesome power
of every life form
in the multiverse
pouring into my consciousness.

Ascension was imminent!

I could feel my fleshly body
giving way to the ecstasy
of nonexistence...

and then, I was snapped back to reality
by a purse to the back of my head.

When I came to my senses,
a woman with a gun
smiled at me and said,
"Silly poet,
you cannot be God."

Then she asked
to borrow $1.25 in quarters
in order to purchase
a tampon from the
rest area bathroom
before she flew into
the clouds on the backs
of a thousand
seraphim.

I felt very sorry

for those bloody
little angels.

Duct Work

2009-11-11T10:30:00.000-08:00

He took a weekend job
rehydrating dried tears
for a nickel a drop.

He crawled
into crow's feet
and chipped salty residue
from eyes that
almost forget
how to cry.

He became obsessed
with saline
often siphoning
client reserves
for his personal use.

He drowned
a few years later
in a pool
of stolen tears
waterlogged
and lifeless
with eyes
that had long lost
the ability
to cry.

In Prism

2009-10-29T23:24:00.000-07:00

The sun is rude.

I keep challenging it
to staring contests
but I've only won
18 times this century.

I am quite embarrassed
--losing to a bloated
ugly eye.

But I am not a quitter.

I practice at night
staring at
light bulbs,
headlights,
and cats.

Cats are harder than you think.

Years from now
when I'm wide eyed and blind,
I will retire
and focus my
sightless Godly stare
on the cat.

Of course,
someone will have to tell me
if it moves.
Because staring at a cat
that isn't there
is plain crazy.

Self Engineering

2009-10-13T19:27:00.000-07:00

I am building
myself out of little
pieces of clear recycled plastic.

I'm trying to go greener
this time.

In the past,
I've tried other materials
but glass breaks
iron rusts
and wood burns.

Oh, don't worry.
I've learned my lesson.
I'm numbering
each section.

It won't take
nearly as much
effort to pull
myself together
next time.

Unless, or course,
I melt.

Late Night Atlas

2009-10-12T20:05:00.000-07:00

He would count
the number of times
she blinked
when he tried getting
out of fixing the world
and divide it
by the number
of times he put his
soul up for collateral
at the cosmic pawn shop.

It always resulted
in a repeating decimal
that fused with
his DNA
and another sleepless night
trying to convince
a certain primordial
Greek Titan out of
going bowling.

Foreign Tongue

2009-10-12T16:59:00.000-07:00

Prick your finger
on the tattooed
barbed wire embedded
in her sweet flesh
and bloodwrite
a new religion
on the crisp
white sheets.

When your
inkwell wanes,
fall aside
for the next prophet.

(She awakes
to a world cluttered
with bloodless men
and a holy book
written in a language

she doesn’t understand.)

Root of the Problem

2009-10-05T21:27:00.000-07:00

I keep planting bodies
but no humans
ever grow.
Just some
weeds and
the occasional
ugly flower.

I really
don't like the flowers
but the weeds
are okay.
You can't kill
those things.

Resilient.

Not like flowers
and people.

Casa Marina Hotel

2009-10-04T20:30:00.000-07:00

Swept by white lace,
sand scatters
across the wooden floor
as a bride dances her first dance
under a new name.

Waves crash on the beach,
each one making
time unsure of itself.
Memories and futures
weave with the present
and ripple across
aged stucco walls.

Soon the courtyard
is hosting wedding guests
and ghosts.
Al Capone’s smoky laughter
twists through history
choking bridesmaids
and chasing the bride
to the window for air.

She stares at the boardwalk
her heart pounding,
doubt swelling in her blood.
Panicked,
she spins recklessly
in the cigar smoke
and screams
but the sounds slip out
in slow motion.
She watches it ripple
through the window
into the ears of a couple
holding hands near the dunes.
Slowly they turn
and wave.

She falls back
from the future
into the arms of her lover
and is swept away
by passion.

(Later she will remember
the older woman
near the dunes
wore her ring

and her smile.)

Hooked

2009-10-03T14:23:00.001-07:00

He took pleasure
in baiting hooks
with angels.

He would pinch
them between his
filthy crooked fingers
and shudder
as the metal barb
pierced their holy flesh.

He would cast them
on trashy streets
and troll
for wayward saints.
Once they bit,
he would yank the line,
set the hook,
and reel in their soul.

Soon the world
was filled
with soulless holy men
preaching to half-eaten angels
constantly looking
for the one feather
that would allow them

to fly home.

Ink Swell

2009-09-29T20:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-29T14:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-29T13:25:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-24T20:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-22T09:24:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-20T18:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-16T20:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-14T21:18:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-13T10:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-13T07:39:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-12T16:18:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-11T21:54:00.000-07:00

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.

Angels Intent on Falling

2008-02-05T07:24:00.000-08:00

Bibles with broken spines
and tattooed with coffee stains
sprawl across cluttered tables.

At certain angles, the stains
form infinity
as the eternal words of God,
pass silent judgment
on your morning routine.

...and you're right,
you haven't sold your soul.
--but you have
cashed out some equity
with an option to buy back.

So, don't look surprised
when you can
no longer pay the interest
and find yourself in default.

(Failing God is easy,
in a language where profit
and prophet sound the same.)

Are you an Angel?

I can no longer tell;
I've been here too long.

She leans in,
kisses my neck
and whispers,

"God may be big
but He gets smaller
the further you fall."

Without Sound, God is Empty

2008-01-20T21:34:00.000-08:00

Muted screams
echo in angry silence
as hushed waves
break on the shores
of heaven
deafening gods
with good intentions.

(and heaven is
the remains of
intricate sand castles
shaken from
the shoes
of sunburned children)

Still, sooty clouds
billow across strange coasts
raining the whispers
of anonymous lovers
onto oblivious
devils hell-bent
to be heard.

Writing with an Angel Feather Quill

2008-01-05T23:32:00.001-08:00

Writing with an Angel Feather Quill

Tomorrow I will write you a poem,
speak of God, and polish
both our halos.

But tonight,

tonight, I will paint pictures
of past lovers
on strangers’ faces,
dine on awkward flesh,
and run into the arms
of friendly devils
courteous enough
to offer solace
from angry gods.

Chaotic Bliss

2007-10-17T19:09:00.000-07:00

When we break,
our pieces mingle.

We lay on
the floor
amongst each other
and become
parts in each other's
puzzle.

Reassembly results
in a picture
--and like most
pictures,
we become subject
to other people’s
scrutiny.

(Best we stay broken,
our pieces
jumbled together
in chaotic bliss.)

Shatter Dance

2007-10-14T12:47:00.000-07:00

Her path always leads to
broken glass.

She has had a private war with mirrors
ever since she learned
to hate herself.

She breaks every one
that bears her image.

The sound of the shatter
makes her shudder
and she dances in ecstasy
among the spreading shards
desperately trying to forget
she is the one
that is broken.

Rogue Poets

2007-09-05T19:13:00.000-07:00

This image is entitled Mouthing Off.

Rogue Poets

Polite conversation
is nothing more

than parasitic words
infesting lip and tongue
until they can do
nothing more but lap against
polished teeth

(and dream of spitting
the bloody rhetoric
of rogue poets
that have forgotten
their mortality.)

Almighty Alzheimer's

2006-11-11T17:02:00.000-08:00

This picture is entitled Absent Minded Savior

Almighty Alzheimer's

The last time
I walked on water,
I got lost
and wandered about
the Atlantic for a year
until I finally found
the shipping lanes
and followed
an oil tanker
to Louisiana.

It happened to be Mardi Gras
and the priests
kept tricking me
into changing
the water into wine.

After a while,
I got tired and
crucified myself.

Everbreak

2006-11-01T15:47:00.000-08:00

Everbreak

I am the point of fracture
on a fissure spreading through glass.

Not about to break; not broken
--eternally breaking.

Writing Epitaphs with Finger Paints

2006-10-29T20:13:00.000-08:00

Writing Epitaphs with Finger Paints

“The drugs don't work no more.”
--The Vincent Black Shadow

He stuffs sins
in a cardboard box
until the lid barely fits.

Their fleshy bodies
strain against
the air holes
as he pokes his
finger around the lip of the box
cramming them further
and further down
as the little squeals
of the damned
lick his ears.

He wraps it carefully
with a pretty pink bow,
grabs a pen and writes:

To God: Thanks for all the laughs.

Society of the Soundless

2006-10-09T08:36:00.000-07:00

Society of the Soundless

"I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."
--Voltaire (1694 - 1778), (Attributed)

"It is dangerous to be right when the government is wrong."
--Voltaire (1694 - 1778)

The Hushes
march down Main Street
teaming up on any Screams and Yells
they may find;
They shove
newspapers and holy books
into their victim's loud mouths
until they are muffled.

Fearful, the free Screams and Yells
go silent. Too afraid of
being muffled; they lose their
voice and become Whimpers.

Aside from the occasional
Shout that is quickly
hunted down and silenced,
we have become
a society of the soundless
living in a library
of books
that we are forbidden to read.

And what of me?

I will become a whisper
dancing between the ears
of the Quiet
and when enough of us
add our whispers together,
we will roar.

Ember Ashes

2006-10-08T16:57:00.000-07:00

Ember Ashes

"If God lived on earth, people would break his windows."
--Jewish Proverb

Embers in the autumn air
the blistering kisses of the damned
as they search for a soul to singe.

Embrace the fiery pinpricks
in the godless sky
and turn your soul to ash.

Drop from angel cluttered clouds
and fall lightly in the hands of hypocrites
that smudge their foreheads
leaving grubby fingerprints
on all they touch.

Watch as the pageant of degenerates
with soot covered genitals
bow to intersecting beams of wood
and pretend to be cannibals.

They are religious gluttons
that fail to realize
that communion is an act of sharing
not of consumption.

Echoes of the Adhan

2006-10-07T10:58:00.000-07:00

Echoes of the Adhan

"Colors fade, temples crumble, empires fall, but wise words endure."
--Edward Lee Thorndike (1874 - 1949)

Crates of bobbleheads
wash up on the shores
just south of Jeddah.

Waves crash
as vacant stares
jiggle in the desert sun.

Soaked in Red Sea salt
they awkwardly stumble east
toward the house
that Abraham built
only to get lost
and melt
in the midday sun.

The last sound
to linger
in their little plastic ears
is a call to prayer
in the unfamiliar
language of God.

The Fragile Stain

2006-10-07T07:10:00.000-07:00

The Fragile Stain

"A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic."
--Joseph Stalin (1879 - 1953)

She breaks bottles in the parking lot.

Slowly, she fingers the jagged edges
and leaves streaks of her soul
smudged on the shattered surface.

Shards chew through
the ridges of her fingertips
and eventually find their way
into the wet breath of God.

The fragments of glass
course through her veins,
and gather in her heart
where they form a blood tinted
stained glass window.

Alone and surrounded by adversaries
I fall with blood in my mouth
and ringing in my ears.

I clutch at the shadows
of my killers
as flesh fails
and I give birth to my soul.

As I leave my body
and become an after-image
in the eyes of my enemies;
my vision blurs and
I see her with bleeding hands
behind the smeared glass.

We hover on opposing
sides of the fragile stain
separated behind
the remnants of broken bottles.

My heaven and
my hell
are found in the bloody
fingerprints of absentee Gods
hiding in the hearts
of the homeless.

Drowning Angels

2006-08-01T20:42:00.000-07:00

This picture is entitled, "Blind Flight".

Drowning Angels

The echoes of
unspoken words
are prayers
to drowned angels
caught in the fishing nets
of blind men.

They pull in their catch
and dine on angelic flesh
only to sprout wings,
take flight,
lose their boat,
and fall into the sea.

Ill at ease with stolen wings
they rip them from their backs
renounce their claim on divinity
and die as men
that know the comfort
of regret.

Domesticated Magicians

2006-08-01T20:29:00.000-07:00

This picture is entitled, "Lonely Familiar".

Domesticated Magicians

Harvest
the remnants of whispers
dangling between
dead lovers.

(leathery sacs
that catch on the ridges
of queasy fingertips)

Greedily,
stuff them in your mouth;
feel them envelop
teeth and tongue
as they spread to moist throat.

Each urge to cough
is a bruised word
that slips on bloody lips
and drops
into the pockets
of fallen magicians
who have sold their secrets
in order to secure
a home in heaven.

Empty Mirror

2006-06-04T21:16:00.000-07:00

This picture is entitled “Empty Mirror”.

Empty Mirror

You're a twisted
little lick.

A fleshy little prayer
hidden in the
fingerprints
of absentee lovers
whose ethereal hands
trek lonely skin
seeking affection
in a beggar's cup.

fold-back; quiver
and burst

The change
in the tip jar
falls among
the broken glass
slicing greedy fingers
that smell of musk
and hopelessness.

Years later,
she buys a mirror
and tries to master
the fine art
of kissing her
reflection,
only to discover
that she doesn't
exist.

Disassembly Required

2006-06-04T21:12:00.000-07:00

This picture is entitled "Used Parts".

Disassembly Required

My heaven is not
a solitary streetlight
in the dark cosmic expanse
where dislocated souls
flop eternally against
smudged glass
begging entry
to a highly selective
source of light.

My soul courses
through flesh
and when my body fails,
it will fall into
my mother’s womb
where the blocks
that built me
will be pulled apart
and used to build
something else.

After all,
we are assembled
from used parts
merely loaned to us
for a season.

Grief Eater

2006-05-31T20:14:00.000-07:00

This image is entitled "Grief Eater".

Grief Eaters

Pudgy little demons
suck on the corner
of her eyes
and feed on the tears
her soul refused
to let flow.

Soon,
they will gorge
themselves
and fall
back into hell.

They become
moist tidbits
for thirsty masters
that have long since
forgotten the
necessity of sorrow.

Ecstasy of Drowning

2006-05-20T15:34:00.000-07:00

Ecstasy of Drowning

When we kiss,
our tongues melt
and drip
from the corners
of our mouths.

We are wet breath
on moist flesh
and rain on each
other until we become
a storm.

The world floods
and we float naked
before the universe
unaware of anything
but the ecstasy
of drowning in each
other’s arms.

God is a Mirror

2006-05-17T20:09:00.000-07:00

God is a Mirror

When a puppet dangles by one string,
it is easy to confuse it with a noose.

When the puppeteer jerks
too hard,
we find ourselves
falling upward
toward God.

We hover briefly
before the Almighty
almost convinced
of His existence
until we notice
God is merely a mirror
and our own reflection
is staring back.

Gravity prevails
and we watch ourselves fade
as our point of origin
and destination
converge.

Viewed at a distance,
we are nothing more
than dark specks
trailing tattered strings
against blue sky
and white clouds
destined to become
bruised flesh
and crimson mist.

Tell me once again
of God... and this
time, try to conceal
the fact you're
lying.

Human Sea

2006-03-19T14:16:00.000-08:00

This picture is entitled "Wave Runner".

Human Sea

"There are nearly 6.5 billion people on Earth; each one of our bodies carries roughly ten gallons of water. We are a living ocean."

Our essence is wet.

There is an ocean inside
our fragile frames;
it courses through us,
connects us,
and laps against our foundation.

We are merely shores
on which common waves break
--barely contained puddles
with leaky souls.

Navigation to foreign coasts
is a hazard seldom attempted
and rarely attained.

When we dream,
we wade into familiar waters
that have passed
through billions of souls
and float in unison
with strangers
temporarily disregarding
corporeality.

We swallow and are swallowed
thinking ancient thoughts
and forgetting ourselves
until we wade back to shore,
dry off,
and go back to the house
with two oval windows.

Kisses My Soul

2006-03-09T20:56:00.000-08:00

Picture entitled "Alternate Sappho".

Kisses My Soul

I am currently falling through god. When I hit bottom, hopefully, there will be enough residue left over to rebuild something --maybe something useful this time.

My reflection
leaks from the mirror
as I slip in the
remnants of my soul.

She speaks to me
in a Sunday voice
(the past mixed with
passion and reverence)
and says,

"Let me stain
your tongue
and drip from
the corner of your smile;
swallow me
and make us one."

Drunk on ghosts;
I fall into bliss
only to wake
at sunset
and die with the sun.

Spitfire and Monkey

2006-02-23T16:32:00.000-08:00

My cats Spitfire and Monkey.

Children of Bizarre Gods

2006-02-11T12:49:00.000-08:00

Figure 1: "Children of Bizarre Gods".

Children of Bizarre Gods

Say: I am only a warner, and there is no god but Allah, the One, the Subduer (of all):
--Suad 38.65, The Koran

Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
--Exodus 20:3, The Bible (King James Version)

I. Shelter of the Lilith Kindred

She is easily deceived
by Jehovah's horny angels
who fled fluffy clouds
to crash her Bacchanalian
celebrations.

(Shadows born of
candles dance on
the angled wallpaper
of her studio apartment
as she finds lovers
in the wisps of
smoke curling around
her fingertips.)

The party crashing seraphim
whisper into her guilt filled
ears that satyrs are demons
and she'll go blind
if she keeps playing
with their horns.

But kisses come
more quickly than wisdom
as she pedals her
sagging spirit
through endless cycles
of lust and loneliness.

(Over-chewed fingernails
result in throbbing keystrokes,
crimson splattered mouse pads,
and broadband stigmata
as she immerses herself
in chamomile tea
and Jack Daniels.)

In the right light,
bloody Band-Aids
are makeshift altars
to newborn gods
hiding from
crosses and crescents
as worshippers
are forced
to chase binary
moons across
digitized fields
and the ancient ways
fade from her balcony
in slow motion
as Diana flees
at a rate of
38 millimeters
a year.

(Centuries later,
she fingers bruises
while counting ceiling tiles
barely reaching double
digits before
the other person
in her apartment
grunts, shudders, and slides
from her moist flesh
free-falling
through dirty laundry
into peeling linoleum
and out to younger skirts
with better credit ratings.)

The children of bizarre gods giggle,
take her by the hand,
spin her through the door,
and together
they fall from sanctuary.

II. World of Crosses and Crescents

Surely those who disbelieve from among the followers of the Book and the polytheists shall be in the fire of hell, abiding therein; they are the worst of men.
--The Clear Evidence 98.6, The Koran

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.
--Exodus 22:18, The Bible (King James Version)

To know a person's religion we need not listen to his profession of faith but must find his brand of intolerance.
--Eric Hoffer (1902-1983)

Outside the Lilith Shelter,
the unblinking eyes
of the Solitary Gods
have risen in solar glory
reddening flesh
and blinding the throngs
of the tattered
as they reach for faith
and the baubles
that accompany it.

She stays to the shadows
for the Kaaba facers
and the Crucifiers both
lay claim to the light.

The voice of God and Allah
are now explosions
and shrapnel are scriptures
penetrating flesh
probing for soul.

Allah speaks,
and she hits the ground
as crosses spit from
biblical revolvers
and crescents slide
from oil soaked scabbards.
Metallic angels with
mechanized wings
lurch heavenward
as calls to prayer
mix with rotor blades
to craft the melodies of bedlam.

The priests and the muttawas
rove the bright streets
with switch-crosses
and steel rods
forcing the female divine
into supplication
or at least to her knees
for sexual gratification
before they stone her
as a slut.

Dodging stones
she passes
through the city gates
far from Gethsemane
far from Mecca
into the twilight passage
that leads
to the Witch Crossing.

III. The Witch Crossing

The gods of the old religion become the devils of the new.
--old saying (usually quoted by adherents to the old religion)

The feminist agenda is not about equal rights for women. It is about a socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians.
--Pat Robertson, The World Almanac and Book of Facts, 1993

She journeys until
she no longer hears the voices
of the one-Gods.

Until the only voice she hears
is that of her own soul
crying for the losses
of generations of children plowed into the
earth by religious war machines
fueled by the blood of the faithful
and directed by political holy men
that confuse battlefields with gardens
planting dead flesh
to harvest crops of pain, loss, and suffering
in order to feed the hordes of the bereaved.

She journeys until she
collapses in sorrow
and her tears flow
into the cupped hands
of the children of bizarre gods.

She whispers she's sorry
as sympathetic hands,
lead her to the river,
cast her tears to the moon,
and vanish into the night.

Confused, she dips her hands
into the water and drinks.
She sees
her reflection mix
with the moon's
and suddenly
the lunar painted ripples
rouse and tremble.
Ancient eddies swirl with energy,
as watery moonbeams
revel in their awakening.

They evolve into orphan waves
and leave the refuge of river
to slip through air.

They are glistening moon glimmers
circling her head,
kissing her lips,
and quenching her thirst
for spirit.

They diffuse into her flesh
filling her with primeval dreams
and visions of the divine.
They entwine with her soul,
tug at her core,
and pull tissue from spirit.

Panicked,
she tries to hold herself together
until she is caught
in the ecstasy of the moment
and lets go.

IV. The Evolution of a Goddess

Physicists and Mystics have looked at the Universe and observed the same things, but the Mystics spoke in poetry, images and parable, and the Scientists spoke in numbers, equations and formulas.
--Abby Willowroot

You may drive out nature with a pitchfork,
Yet she will ever hurry back
over your foolish contempt.
--Epistles 1:10:24, Horace (65-8 BCE)

Cause you're the only song I want to hear,
a melody softly soaring through my atmosphere.
--Soul Meets Body by Death Cab for Cutie

She falls with the rain
on to the backs of lovers,
drifts through trees
with summer winds
as the leaves tickle her soul,
and becomes the sand that sifts
through the fingers
of children of bizarre gods
as they play on the beaches of eternity.

Her naked soul
lay spent before the Cosmos
as she spreads
across the earth.

She forgets herself
and becomes a lullaby
on the breath of the Goddess
singing angry Gods to sleep
so that Her children
may once again walk in the sun.

Quick Note #1

2006-01-16T18:35:00.000-08:00

This is just a quick note to let my friends know that I will be gone for a few weeks. (I know I have already been absent for a while. Please forgive me.) This especially goes out to Cargwaps, Blue Rogue, Mashiara, and Soulless... their words are medicine to my sick soul.

Disfigured Souls

2005-12-28T08:18:00.000-08:00

Disfigured Souls

Disfigured souls
damaged in spiritual transit
are claimed by divine insurance
and shoved in a flesh box
to be sold as is.

Gods on a budget
buy us up without a warranty
(the expectation for failure
is overwhelming)
hoping to get their money's worth
before the inevitable breaking...

and when the 'pending shattered'
finally falter and burst,
we are scolded and beaten
before being cast down to earth
as human debris.

Here we live in a junkyard
of misfits and factory rejects
fumbling failures begging
a second chance from cheap gods
even as we revel in our own
inadequacies just to spite
our creator.

De-Generation

2005-12-15T20:37:00.000-08:00

This picture is entitled De-Generation.

De-Generation

And the greatest minds of my generation
are masturbating to Lara Croft
--and she isn't even real. But
you got to have faith. At least
that's what the preacher says,
so, get the Vaseline and the KY Jelly.

"For the fool has said
in his (or her) heart there is no God."

So do I believe in God because of
prideful pricks of not wanting
to be a fool...

wait,

Croft is raiding another
Tomb. Puff on a smoke and pause...
look at those digitized inner thighs
hmmmmm, pixel perfection.

Toilet bowl wombs with water running
all night. The anti-depressants work,
at least they do at the prayer meetings
with Lord Calvert.

Conservative backlash...
"Damn Hippie! Long hair!"
Apologies were issued once they found out
it was actually Christ.

So why do we want to know?
Because of hell, that's why.

That's where the Coke machines
steal your money and there are scratches
on your CDs and McDonalds closes
at 5:00pm and they issue you a
cable bill twice a month.
Where obsolete serotonin seraphim sing
praises to Freud while lewdly
dancing around my brain stem
like nymphs around a maypole in
a fertility rite and to my dismay the only entry
in my little black book is a picture of my
right hand with a note that states
that my video game rental for
Tomb Raider is four years past due.

And after all this, what is real?
Cracked heels, irregularity, tampons, yeast infections,
and pre-paid phone cards to call
the 1-900 suicide hot line where
menu options offer blow jobs, church donations,
psychic readings, and psychiatric help.

And nobility is defined by the amount
of sexual harassment grievances, DUI
charges, and Microsoft stigmatas we wear.
(Pixels bleed from our fingertips
and are quickly gathered for DNA testing
to prove our lack of faith.)

Trippin' on espresso, we perceive reality
in frame by frame 3D rendering and wonder
why God hasn't upgraded our CPU.

And Heaven is further away than a max'd
out credit card and God is still safe from mortal's view
under the guise of trickle down economics and
earned income tax credits.

God sips margaritas with crucifix tropical drink toppers
and smiles until He inevitably
pierces His lip and all humor is lost --except for a slight
giggle echoing from Galapagos where
Darwin cleans the Vaseline from the Playstation,
and Freud licks his cigar.
But God's lip is still bleeding;
the droplets forming words plagued with conjecture
and multiple interpretations.

Between the lot, no one had a condom.

And is this how we got here?
Are we spinning in the porcelain
choking on cigar smoke and Vaseline residue
with Tomb Raider theme music playing in the
background?
Was Lara Croft the inspiration for our existence?
Did He have to hurry because the Pizza Man
was pounding on the door, already swearing
damnations because he tripped over a pair of roller blades
and slipped in the remains of the last beer run?

Generation Next falters from the game,
mumbles incoherently and says why am I
reading this? Lara's on the tube and there's
no one in the bathroom.

God's bleeding may have stopped, but
the stains remain. Scarlet Rorschach inkblots
in which we once guided our lives and in which we
gained our ideas of morality are now spectacles
for the Inquirer and Jerry Springer.

Author's Note: Inspiration from "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg.

Lip Service (Cracked Sun Gods)

2005-12-12T20:32:00.000-08:00

This picture is entitled Cracked Sun Gods.

Lip Service

Kiss tripping
on cheek and neck
as lips warm
passion's path
and wisps
of smoky flesh
wrap around bare thighs.

(Breathing on embers
make them glow.)

My tongue
catches you on fire
and too soon
turns you to ash.
Consumed, you crumble
and are gone.

Embracing ash,
soot powders
my body
and I wear you
as a sacrament.

(God never tasted so good.)

You mix with
tears and sweat
becoming blackened streaks
leading to thirsty eyes
that will never
drink you again.

Chasing Halos

2005-12-11T10:26:00.000-08:00

This image is entitled Neon Angel 13.

Chasing Halos

She spent most of her youth
chasing her halo
as it rolled away from God.

By the time she realized
it was gone,
she had two children
and the memory
of the man that fathered them.

She spent her days
sealing her fate
never quite cognizant
that her daughters
were chasing halos
of their own.

Wagers of the Dead

2005-12-09T10:57:00.000-08:00

This picture is entitled "Demon Within".

Wagers of the Dead

She slips between the sheets
of the dead.

Hung with the draperies
of mansions in disrepair,
she carries the moon
on a silver curtain rod,
opening herself when the
sun trips over
the horizon and
falls into her lap.

Pale breasts and red lips
give the illusion of pink flesh
when she's shaken hard enough
and her face blurs
into the background
of carved mahogany
and old canvas.

Warm breath on a
cold night intoxicates
the demons in angry men
who wager her like
ancient currency
in games of chance;

and though divine writ
states souls cannot be bought,
they most surely may be won
and lost.

Feathers in the Fog

2005-12-05T07:15:00.000-08:00

Feathers in the Fog

The old bat kept ordering
insecticide off the television.

She said, "Angels keep
nesting in my hair."

I said, "I don't know
if it works on angels."

(What I should have said
was that you should
leave the house
when using an insecticide fogger
--and, if for some reason you stay,
don't smoke.)

When they found her
she was on her back,
singed bunny slippers in the air,
surrounded by the carcasses
of a thousand dead angels.

Evolution of the Lifeless

2005-09-18T07:51:00.000-07:00

Evolution of the Lifeless

"A predator is the culmination of its victims."

She is strips of meat
dangling between
the teeth of predators.

Her soul is
in their bloody breath
as they speak
the language of murder.

Unaware of herself,
she sleeps
in her killer's flesh
only to awake
to the scent of blood.
She is self-aware just long enough
to welcome future victims
to their new home
(a colony
of the non-violent
in the belly of the beast).

Alien in the Artwork

2005-09-15T20:54:00.000-07:00

Alien in the Artwork

If God forgets you,
did you really exist?

The landscape painted
around my life
loses a dimension
and falls flat before me.

Perception is lost
and I fall prey
to the illusion of depth
as roads become walls
trapping me between frames.

Familiar strangers
speak in stop-action
disappearing when they turn
to talk amongst themselves
(abruptly re-appearing
when they turn again to face me).

Desperate for perspective,
I run to the edge of the canvas,
only to find my flesh
periodically rip in neat seams
as I get paper-cuts
from people in profile.

Surveying the scene,
I realize these shoal souls
with tinny voices
are not the foreigners in this land
and that I have become
the alien in the artwork
desperately seeking depth
in a shallow world.

Pretty Paper Hearts

2005-09-11T09:19:00.000-07:00

Pretty Paper Hearts

She would wrap her heart
in pretty paper
and give it to people
she thought might like her.

But when they unwrapped
the pretty paper,
they would find nothing inside.

She later discovered
that her heart
was the paper
and the act of opening it
also ripped it to pieces.

Before too long,
she decided to keep
her paper heart to herself.
(But her tears made it soggy
and prone to ripping.)

When they found her,
she had drowned
in her apartment
clutching wet paper
filled with old news.

Jagged Dreams

2005-09-08T21:08:00.000-07:00

Jagged Dreams

"and (they) said to the mountains and rocks, fall on us, and hide us from the face of Him that sitteth on the throne..."
--Revelations 6:16

He steals dreamcatchers
to harvest their nightmares.

He wrings them
with desperate fingers
into buckets of paint and blood.

He dips his brush
and paints
pictures of himself
on cracked mirrors,
broken bottles,
and shards of glass
that he franticly hides
underneath rocks
and used newspapers.

Each brushstroke
spreads him thinner
and further scatters
his shattered soul
in an useless attempt
to flee from god.

At a safe distance,
she trails behind him
with a wicked smile,
a broom,
and some glue
(force-fixing
the intentionally broken).

Note: Dreamcatchers are Native American amulets used to capture nightmares while sleeping.

Friends of Words I Once Penned

2005-09-05T15:44:00.000-07:00

pricked by the thorns
of black roses,
she bleeds heroin
in mother's milk
and I suck
in her apathy
until I turn my
back on the divine
and drape myself
in the flesh
of loose women,
cheap wine
and heresy.

many years later
friends of words
i once penned,
find me
incoherent
and babbling of the
gods i have forsaken
and write an
epic of loss
(each word falling
like loose change
into the cup
of vagrant angels
too eager
to kick the
shit out of
a forgotten poet
who blasphemed
one too many times.)

Chalk Marks on a Dead Soul

2005-06-22T17:14:00.000-07:00

This picture is entitled "Chalk Tears" and it was created specifically for the verse below.

Chalk Marks on a Dead Soul

A prettiness mummified by years of chalk dust.
--Richard Eder

We would take turns
counting our sins
in chalk tally marks
on the alley wall
beside her church.

It evolved into a game that would last
from cloudburst to cloudburst.
(The goal was to see
who could amass the most sins
to be washed away by God.)

So when they lift
the fingerprints
from the bruises
found on her dead soul,
it is no surprise
they are mine.

The hunt leads them
to the alley by her church
Where I kneel
with rivulets of tears
streaking my chalk-covered cheeks,
praying for rain.

A World of Belligerent Men

2005-06-16T19:20:00.000-07:00

This image is called "Haystack Evolution".

A World of Belligerent Men

Her back evolved into pavement
and belligerent men
drove streetlights into her spine
so they could tread on her
day and night.

Some brought drill-bits and shovels
and would drill
through blood and sinew
hoping they would strike her soul
and sell her spirit in bottles
to those that had need of one.

Before long,
her frame began to fold
and she bore a nation
on her fragile flesh.

I know because
I would stray from the pavement
journey to her eyes,
drink in her tears,
and pretend
(for just one moment)
that I was important.

Counting Rainbows

2005-06-07T19:34:00.000-07:00

This image is entitled "Shattered Passion" and it was created specifically for the verse below.

Counting Rainbows

At night, we fall with a kiss
into fragile sheets
that shatter into shards of glass.

Frenzied with lust, we are sliced
and cut with each arch and thrust
until exhaustion claims desire
and we lean against the wall
awaiting morning.

The day peeks through the window
and we are bathed in sun blossom
as the dissected light
of a thousand jagged prisms
dance upon spent passion
and we die in each other's arms
counting rainbows.

Stolen Sylph Wings

2005-06-03T15:47:00.000-07:00

Stolen Sylph Wings

"Wisps of time
curl between Her lips
like misted breath
on a frosty day."

Sylphs dance on
Her wind-blown kisses
until summer rains
pelt them to the ground.

Frustrated, aroused,
and denied flight,
they roll in mud
with earthbound creatures
until they are satiated
and fall asleep in the arms
of mud-dwellers
awestruck with their enchantment
and myth.

Only when the rain stops
and they wake
groggy-eyed and wingless,
do they realize
they have been caged
by envious men
--jealous of flight,
jumping off cliffs
with pilfered sylph wings
ecstatic with a few moments
of stolen magic
before breaking their
damn necks.

Spirit Trafficking

2005-06-02T21:24:00.000-07:00

This picture is entitled "Devilspeak".

Spirit Trafficking

On nights my tongue thickens
and I sit naked and dumb-eyed
staring at the witches
swimming in her veins,

she curses me, drags my flesh
to the light
and plucks the ghosts
out of my hair.

She gathers them in bowls
while singing lullabies
and when she has enough,
she drowns them in their sleep
with musk and sandalwood oil,
wraps them in pretty fabric
and sells them to tourists
seeking charms to protect themselves
from losing their money.

A Fear of Rose Water

2005-05-29T19:58:00.000-07:00

This picture is entitled, "Angelic".

A Fear of Rose Water

The fine line between
flying and falling
is born in the aftermath
of an unexpected kiss.

Where fallen angels
rend useless wings
from their broken backs
and the disembodied stumps
flop uselessly
amongst oblivious lovers
who lick angelic
blood from tenuous flesh
and stuff pillows
with down that
was crafted directly
by the hands of
god.

She is the breath taken
before a warning.

The pillows become
a grave yard of tears
mixing with the blood
of dead angels
that litter the bedrooms
of the lonely.

She is the picture that
proves god,

burning in the ashtray
of a blind man
that has left
too many lovers
dangling at the
end of ropes.

Climbing rose vines
wrap around their ankles
and the winds are
trying to set them free...
trying,
but they fail in their intent
and merely serve
to drive the thorns
in deeper.

Their blood trickles down
pinking the water
I serve to my lover.

It tastes of roses,
and a vague sense of loss.

...and soon she falls
into my flesh
and we dance
and kiss
and ruin delicate
lace,

but we both know
we are doomed to trip
over dead angels.

A Place for Thrown Stones

2005-05-22T15:47:00.000-07:00

This picture is entitled, "Thrown Stones". It was created specifically for the verse below.

A Place for Thrown Stones

[4] they said to him, "Teacher, this woman has been caught in the act of adultery.
[5] Now in the law Moses commanded us to stone such. What do you say about her?"
[7] And as they continued to ask him, he stood up and said to them, "Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her."
[9] But when they heard it, they went away, one by one, beginning with the eldest, and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him.
[10] Jesus looked up and said to her, "Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?"
[11] She said, "No one, Lord." And Jesus said, "Neither do I condemn you; go, and do not sin again."

--John 8:4-11, Holy Bible: Revised Standard Version

Caught up in lust,
she once again falls into flesh
and soon finds herself surrounded
by angry stones.

She runs from her fate
only to find her savior suspended, spiked and speared.
She heaves herself beneath Him
into the dim coolness betwixt Him and the sun.

Resigning herself to her destiny,
she steps toward her accusers
--only to find that she is trapped
in the shadows of the cross,
imprisoned in the right angles of divine shade.

Crimson streams gush
down the wood and stain her soul.
She looses her flesh and becomes
one with the absence of sun.
Nourished by the grace
of a dead savior,
her only pardon comes at nightfall
when she is free to dance on darkened-clouds
and revel in the sweat of young lovers.

Every sunrise is a sentence to be jailed
in the shadows of tombstones
whispering to the dead
and hiding in their bones,
‘til Christ returns,
forgives her once again,
and takes her home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's Note: I have always been curious what happened to the woman that Christ saved in John 8:1-11. How did she take the news of his crucifixion? This verse is a continuation of the story provided in John 8:1-11. It attempts to look at this nameless woman in greater detail. ~Max

Heure Verte dans le Cimetière

2005-05-11T19:57:00.000-07:00

The title of the image is "Cain".

Heure Verte dans le Cimetière

i am sugar through the absinthe spoon
awaiting the louche,
(moonlight reflects
the shadows that lurk
behind soft folds
and musky kisses
that whisper breathless pleas
to hungry ears)
discarded lace
deliquesces into white sage
and the confusion
that promises clarity
brings me closer
to the bit of my
soul that lay
in the ground
with you.

perchance the little green fairies
may dig you up and help
wrench that piece of me
from your heart...

but no,

instead i will
drip through the slotted spoon
fall into the fog
sleep with the spirits
and drown.
the licks of envious
Victorian fairies
still fresh on
my flesh
as they lay me
in the ground
--just inches away from
you.

Author's Note: The title of the poem means "Green hour in the Cemetery". "Green Hour" is simply a time to drink absinthe. "Louche" has multiple meanings in this piece. The first being that "louche" is the word used to describe the clouding effect that occurs when you add water to absinthe. "Louche" can also mean having the qualities of being disreputable, shady, or shifty. It can also mean something subject to two or more interpretations and usually used to mislead or confuse. Quite frankly, I love all those meanings --and they all seem to fit.

The Penance of Rebellious Shadows

2005-05-08T16:01:00.000-07:00

This picture, entitled Cain's Regret, was specifically created for the poem below.

The Penance of Rebellious Shadows

Pricked, throbbing, and
kissed with fever,
playful shadows
tug at their Gods
'til the flesh slips
from bleached bones.

Frightened shades
(fearful of reprisals)
slip into vacant skin,
wear the sacred meat,
and have delusions
of humanity.

Becoming adept
at fooling flesh,
they live among the divine
and soon realize
the penance for killing a god,
is to become one.

Opposite Ends of the Earth

2005-02-05T08:22:00.000-08:00

This is a picture of the pier in Fairhope, Alabama taken from the Municipal Park at sunset on February 4, 2005.

Opposite Ends of the Earth

"...and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life."
--Genesis 3:24

You fell toward the heavens
as I passed the equator
and the earth moved between us.

(that may be the closest you ever get)

I never knew the
difference between
good and evil
until I tasted you.

Adam's sin left a void
you constantly try to
fill. You have become
an addict to a drug you’ve
never had.

You wanted me to save you,
but I'm not a savior
and even if I was
you'd just end up
nailing me to a cross.

At the Murder Scene of a Soul

2005-02-05T08:14:00.000-08:00

At the Murder Scene of a Soul

"...and how do you trace chalk around a dead soul?"

when we lose faith
we die

we become chalk outlines
scurrying across the floors
of believers,
slinking under their sofas
when their faith
is too strong,
and hovering on the ceilings
above lovers
that have yet
to learn the
art of deceit.

we wait for the
opportunity to slip
into an innocent's shadow
and satiate our need
to devour their faith
in order that we may have a taste
of what we once had.

Malady Darkfall

2005-01-25T19:13:00.000-08:00

Malady Darkfall

She speaks in tangents
from a scalpel tongued mouth
and when she licks her lips
splatters of crimson kisses
drip like lies
between luscious breasts.
Her whispers are harlots
that breathe close to taut skin
reveling in the slaps of wet flesh.

But her eyes are hollow
with a wisp of fading hope
that maybe someone
will stay to see
her battered soul.

Moths

2005-01-25T19:12:00.000-08:00

Moths

moths flail thick winged on the glass...
as sweat stenched pillows cradle matted hair
and dumb eyes.

crumpled sheets strewn about wet flesh
trap wayward limbs
and snag jagged nails.

but the moths...

flicker and flap
and whisper wicked taunts
and promise quick kisses
stolen from behind the
cracked mirror
where both my faces
bleed into
one

Spirit Wicks

2005-01-24T06:49:00.000-08:00

Spirit Wicks

There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.
--Edith Wharton (1862 - 1937)

Memories melt
into the wax
of our souls.

Our senses are wicks
that hold the fire
that will eventually
consume us.

God was the guy
with the lighter.

History Lesson

2005-01-22T08:43:00.000-08:00

History Lesson

By the way, I took your advice
and tried to 'go copulate' with myself.
But thoughts of you kept
throwing of my rhythm.
Consequently, I went blind, broke my wrist,
and was the punch line of many jokes
issued by the emergency room staff.
But in the end it didn't matter,

because
you cry tiny gods
from fake plastic eyes
that I refuse to worship anymore.

Murder and God

2005-01-19T18:24:00.000-08:00

This picture is entitled, "Evolving Prey". It was created specifically for the verse below.

Murder and God

"One murder makes a villain, millions a hero."
--Beilby Porteus

I.
He leans in close and
picks pieces of her soul
from between his teeth
with splinters
ripped from an old rugged cross.

His shadow erases
her existence.

II.
her murderer's silhouette
provides a momentary respite
from the glaring eye of God
and she revels in her killer's
rebellion against the Almighty
even as she is a victim of it.

III.
the confusion between
the silhouette of a murderer
and a savior can be counted
in the degrees of gray
leading to black.

Identity Theft

2005-01-16T13:39:00.000-08:00

This picture is entitled, "Identity Theft". I initially wanted to call it "Loosing Yourself" but that was just a tad too close to an Eminem song. So I typed 'loosing yourself' into my favorite search engine and an article concerning identity theft appeared.

The following verse wasn't written for the graphic... but it seemed to fit.

To the Enlightenment Junkies

I have a bobble-head Buddha
on the dash of my mini-van.
The fat fellow watches me
as I flip off jerks in 4X4 trucks.

When I get too angry,
he leaps from his perch
climbs awkwardly up my seatbelt
an slaps me senseless.

On one particular slapping session,
I heard the crunch of fenders
and everything stopped.

(I thought, "This is it!
I have attained enlightenment!")

Everything went dark save a single light,
a light at the end of a long tunnel...
I traveled to it.
There before me stood Jesus
and I said, "Is this it! Is this enlightenment!"

Apparently not,
for He took His own name in vain,
wielded His cross like a Louisville Slugger
and batted me back down the tunnel.

It was at that moment,
in a full body cast,
(Buddha had undone my seatbelt)
that I realized... enlightenment sucks.

Lot's Wife (Hourglass Eyes)

2005-01-15T17:36:00.000-08:00

Lot's Wife (Hourglass Eyes)

"But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt."
--Genesis 19:26

"Of whose wickedness even to this day the waste land that smoketh is a testimony, and plants bearing fruit that never come to ripeness: and a standing pillar of salt is a monument of an unbelieving soul."
--Wisdom of Solomon 10:7

Time sifts through her veins;
she is the broken hourglass
that has seen God.

She bleeds salt from
sandblasted stigmatas
and cries sand from
ever open eyes.

Parched parted lips reveal
a scorpion's tail
that strikes her throat
with every attempt to speak.

The wind scatters her
yet she cannot forget herself;
her consciousness spreads
with each windborne grain
until she envelopes humanity
and swallows their sin.

She is an ever-eroding
warning from God
--that I sprinkle on my food.

ButterNut

2005-01-15T17:31:00.000-08:00

This is my son's new kitten she goes by many names: Angel Hunter, Feather Breath, Little Fox, but she's really "ButterNut".

Black Hole Antichrist

2005-01-15T09:06:00.000-08:00

Black Hole Antichrist

"I have been called an antichrist by those that have never read the bible."

Antichrists are bent-light
warped by a collapsed Son.
Twisted glimmers
who sell God in tiny packets
of artificial sweetener
to desperate mouths
whose tongues crave the divine
and are frustrated to find
that God
is merely smoke
that is dispersed
by the very hands
that grasp for Him.

Eagerly, the wet lips
and probing tongues
devour the antichrist's
sugar coated crosses
until their stomachs
distend, their teeth
fall out
and they become useless.
Easily placated by fluttering scriptures
plucked out of Holy context
by the antichrist's
sweet-toothed
lies.

Meadow River Lumber Company

2005-01-14T16:08:00.000-08:00

This is a picture of the Meadow River Lumber Company in Randolph County, WV. This is the lumber company my wife's great grandfather managed.

Lava for Sale

2005-01-09T19:14:00.000-08:00

This is the Lava Lamp that my kids wanted for Christmas. They were disappointed when they found out that it didn't actually hold Lava.

Origin

2005-01-09T19:06:00.000-08:00

I am a memory of
myself, adrift in
the dreams of my
children.

When they wake,
I vanish.

(but I never know whether
I was their dream
or nightmare.)

Sisters Chaste and Gotten

2005-01-09T07:33:00.000-08:00

SISTERS
Chaste & Gotten

{A Single Act Comedy in Miniature}

Cast of Characters:

Sister Merry Chaste
Sister Mariam Gotten
The Unconscious Prostitute

Opening scene. Sister Mariam Gotten sits in the convent's cafeteria. She has just finished a late night snack and is now placing her dishes in the sink. Enter Sister Merry Chaste. She is backing into the room dragging an unconscious prostitute. Sister Mariam Gotten turns and addresses her.

Gotten: [Turning toward Chaste.] Sister Chaste?

Chaste: Yes.

Gotten: What are you carrying?

Chaste: [Makes the sign of the cross.] An overly inebriated prostitute --I mean, former prostitute.

Gotten: Sister Chaste?

Chaste: Yes.

Gotten: Why are you dragging a drunken prostitute into the convent's cafeteria at three o'clock in the morning?

Chaste: To get some coffee?

Gotten: That excuse may work on me, but Mother Superior is going to ask a few more questions.

Chaste: Well, I was hoping some coffee would wake her up. It always works on the movies. Isn't that what you're supposed to do in these situations? [Starts to lift the prostitute onto a table, but is having difficulty.]

Gotten: [Walks over and assists Chaste.] From the looks of her Sister Chaste, she could probably sleep through judgment. How much has she had to drink?

Chaste: I'm not quite sure.

Gotten: Maybe you should tell me a little more about was has happened.

Chaste: She came to me asking for my help.

Gotten: She wants to become a nun?

Chaste: Well, not exactly. Though I'm sure that with a little enlightenment, I will be able to convince her of the wondrous life we lead.

Gotten: Ah, so you saw her passed out and decided to bring her here.

Chaste: No. She did come to me and ask for help, but I fear she may have been under duress at the time.

Gotten: Duress? What did you do? Hold her at knifepoint?

Chaste: No, not exactly.

Gotten: Not exactly? What in the world are you talking about?

Chaste: Well, it's a little difficult to explain.

Gotten: Go on.

Chaste: You may have noticed I haven't been my usual perky self during morning prayers.

Gotten: Actually, no. You always seem perky.

Chaste: Why thank you. I do try. Anyway, I've been going out among the sinners at night and doing the Lord's work.

Gotten: The tabloids would have a field day with that one.

Chaste: Why?

Gotten: [As if reading headline.] Nun goes around city picking up drunken prostitutes. Claims to be doing Lord's work.

Chaste: Very funny, sister Gotten. I have had some very difficult problems. This work is not easy to perform.

Gotten: I bet. Where did you perform this work.

Chaste: Down on Forty Second North.

Gotten: Forty Second North? I didn't even think you knew of that part of town.

Chaste: Well to be honest, I didn't. I went up to Father Leonard and asked him where the sinners gathered.

Gotten: And he actually told you? Wow, that means he condones your actions.

Chaste: Not exactly.

Gotten: What?

Chaste: I waited till he was preparing communion. Somehow he becomes more conducive to innovative ideas around communion time.

Gotten: That's because Father Leonard enjoys drinking toasts to the Lord.

Chaste: Sister Gotten!

Gotten: Well it's true. I've seen him, but go on.

Chaste: Well, I decided to take the convent's van down to Forty Second North and show those people how to be virtuous. It was quite a culture shock I assure you. Do you know what happened the first minute that I stepped out of the van?

Gotten: What?

Chaste: I was propositioned!

Gotten: No! [Sarcastically.]

Chaste: It was quite unsettling. Well, I had been going down there for about a week and was about to give up. In fact I told myself if I didn't help someone tonight, I was going to quit going down there. The Lord must have been listening. I had just arrived and was attempting to parallel park the van, when the poor frightened girl laying before us came running out of a near by door way. Her high heel broke as she tried to turn too quickly, but she came stumbling down the side walk just as fast as she could. She had tears streaming down her eyes and was yelling for help. The mascara she had on was smeared and she looked very scared. Then I looked up at the doorway and understood why. A man came running out of the same door with a gun.

Gotten: A gun!

Chaste: Yes, a gun. The poor girl was frantically trying to get out of the path of the gun. She was dodging to the left and to the right, but the man kept moving the gun towards her. I think he meant to shoot her in cold blood. I was horrified. But the girl looked like she was going to get away. Then it happened.

Gotten: What?!

Chaste: She fell down. The man lowered his gun to her level and was laughing maniacally. He slowly tightened his grasp on the trigger and...

Gotten: And what!?

Chaste: And that's when the street lamp fell on him.

Gotten: Street lamp? What street lamp?

Chaste: The street lamp I inadvertently knocked over while I was trying to parallel park the convent's van.

Gotten: Amazing. Mother Superior is going to love this one. What happened next?

Chaste: The poor girl ran to the van and begged me to take her some place safe. What could I do? This is the safest place I know.

Gotten: What happened to the man? Did you at least call an ambulance?

Chaste: No, he was all right.

Gotten: How could you be certain?

Chaste: He couldn't have been too hurt. After all, he was able to stand up and shoot five bullet holes into the back of the van door.

Gotten: We're going to have to increase Mother Superior's heart medicine tomorrow, or she's going to have a heart attack.

Chaste: I certainly hope not. I've had enough excitement for this week.

Gotten: How did she [Points at prostitute.] get so drunk?

Chaste: I'm not exactly sure. I was in the van. She was in the van. I decided since we just had a near death experience, it might be a good time to talk of the Lord and the wondrous life that I lead here at the convent. [Pause.] She must have had the bottle in her purse. It was a long drive and I just kept talking. By the time we got here, she was passed out in the back of the van with an empty bottle in her hand.

Gotten: Now that, I can understand.

Chaste: Well, what do you think I should do?

Gotten: I don't know, Merry Chaste. What do you think?

Chaste: I was thinking if you would help me, we could get her out of these vile clothes, clean her up, put some good clothes on her, and give her a good place to sleep for the night.

Gotten: Okay. I agree to help you on one condition. Don't mention my name to Mother Superior tomorrow.

Chaste: It's a deal. [She starts to pull the high heels of the prostitute's feet.] Good Lord how did she ever get any business with her feet smelling this bad?

Gotten: I doubt if many of her customers were interested in her feet.

Chaste: [Sits prostitute up and starts to remove her blouse (a bikini top is underneath.) She pauses and stares at her back with a puzzled look. Then steps back startled. The prostitute falls forward on her stomach.] Sister Gotten! She has tattoos of immoral acts all over her back! [Turns away.]

Gotten: [Walking over she stops and looks.] That's ingenious.

Chaste: What?

Gotten: It seems to be an illustrated price guide. Each picture is numbered. [Studies it a bit further.] Some of the prices have been scratched out and new ones written underneath.

Chaste: What on earth for?

Gotten: Inflation?

Chaste: Sister Gotten that was rude.

Gotten: No, I 'm serious. I figure a good Wall Street analyst could make predictions based on this kind of detailed price tracking. It even has dates!

Chaste: [Coming over and looking.] You're right! Look right there. Isn't that when what's his name took office?

Gotten: Sure is.

Chaste: Wow. This is very detailed. Well, that just goes to prove that this poor woman needs our help.

Gotten: Charging these prices, she couldn't be too poor.

Sister Merry Chaste and Sister Mariam Gotten start to wash off the prostitute with wet rags from the kitchen sink. Sister Merry Chaste keeps slowing down becoming more and more preoccupied with the tattoos on the prostitutes back. She alternates between wide-eyed wonder and a guilty expression.

Chaste: [Studying the illustration with wide eyes.] Sister Gotten, I have a confession to make.

Gotten: Do I really have to hear this?

Chaste: Forgive me. [Makes the sign of the cross.] I believe I am guilty of number sixty two.

Gotten: [Looking down the list of tattoos.] Mary Chaste! You'll have to confess that one to a priest! My goodness, I never thought you would be the type of person to do that! [Points at the prostitute's back.]

Chaste: Do you really think it's that bad?

Gotten: Yes Sister Chaste, I really do. [Pause.] But just between you and me, how did you get the raccoon to stand on its head?

Chaste: Raccoon!? [looks at list] That's fifty-two. I said sixty-two!

Gotten: [Looks at list again.] Oh Sister Merry Chaste, we're all guilty of number sixty two.

Chaste: Everyone?

Gotten: Yes, everyone.

Chaste: Even Mother Superior?

Gotten: Even Mother Superior.

Chaste: That isn't a very pleasant thought.

Gotten: I have to agree with you. That isn't a pretty thought.

Chaste: [After a pause.] How often do you think she does number sixty-two?

Gotten: Who?

Chaste: Mother Superior.

Gotten: If her personality is any indication --not very often.

Chaste: Do you think she does it more than three times a day?

Gotten: I don't know. Why?

Chaste: No reason. [Long pause.] Sister Gotten?

Gotten: Yes. [Irritated.]

Chaste: Do you think it's harmful to do it more than three times a day?

Gotten: [Smiling slyly.] No. Three times a day won't hurt, but if you do it more than five you're eyebrows will start to grow together.

Chaste: [After a quick deep inhale.] Excuse me Sister Gotten, I have to use the restroom.

Gotten: There's a mirror above the sink. [Chuckles.]

Chaste: Sister Gotten, it isn't nice to play tricks on the naive.

Gotten: I'm not. Have you noticed Mother Superior's eyebrow.

Chaste: [Looks thoughtful.] Well, I believe she is clean enough. I'll run to the bath and get her some clean clothes. [Exit Chaste]

Gotten: [Crooks her head right as she looks at one of the tattoos on the prostitute's back.]

Chaste: [From off stage.] Sister Gotten?

Gotten: [Crooks her head left. Talks as if preoccupied.] Yes.

Chaste: Do you know where I can find a razor? There are some tags that need to be cut off these clothes.

Gotten: [Still looking at the prostitute's back.] Above the Correctol, next to the Pepto Bismol.

Chaste: Thanks.

Gotten: [Continues looking at the prostitutes back. She alternates facial expressions between disgust, awe, jealous smiles, or any other expression appropriate.]

Chaste: [Enters with a band aid between her eye brows.] I got the clothes. All nice and fresh.

Gotten: Did you get the tags off?

Chaste: What tags... Oh yeah, I got them off. [Both Chaste and Gotten begin to dress the prostitute.] Sister Gotten, this situation may be too much for Mother Superior to handle.

Gotten: Yes, It just might be.

Chaste: Do you really think I'll get into too much trouble?

Gotten: I don't know Sister Merry Chaste. But, don't worry about our agreement. I will go with you to Mother Superior in the morning.

Chaste: Oh thank you, Sister Mariam Gotten! [By this line, they should be finished redressing the prostitute.]

The two sisters get the prostitute off the table and help her to her feet. Sister Merry Chaste is on the right of the prostitute and Sister Mariam Gotten is on the left. The two sisters are supporting the prostitute between them and turn to face the audience.

Gotten: [To audience.] She may be Chaste.

Chaste: [To audience.] And she may be Gotten.

Gotten and Chaste: [In unison to audience.] But this one thing we have never forgotten.

Gotten: [To audience.] We may have a Band-Aid upon our brow.

Chaste: [To audience.] But when there is trouble, we'll help somehow.

Gotten: [To audience.] And although your enemy may have a large gun...

Chaste: [To audience.] He will not withstand the force of a parking nun.

Gotten: [To audience.] We do all we do so that maybe you'll see...

Chaste: [To audience.] That sisters are your friends, and will serve you faithfully.

Chaste and Gotten: [To audience.] Good night!

Exit Chaste and Gotten carrying the prostitute between them.

THE END

Glass Ghosts

2005-01-08T21:05:00.000-08:00

This is a picture of my Grandma Nellie, Grandpa Denzil, Uncle Fay, Mother, Aunt Doris, and Uncle Ted (left to right back row then front).

Glass Ghosts

"These lovely lamps, these windows of the soul."
--Guillaume de Salluste Du Bartas (1544-1590)

Lenses from Grandfather's bifocals
were ground into sand.

Now they sift through a
perpetual glass prison
in an hourglass heirloom.

Upon death,
the living grind glass
and add vision to the timepiece
so the rest of the chain
can see glints of stray light
and insight from
ancient eyes
that flash into
young pupils.

Each contribution
lengthens time
as each old ghost
lends a hand
to the living.

Spirit Trees

2005-01-06T21:33:00.000-08:00

Spirit Trees

Crawling over soiled tissues and bloody
rubber gloves,
these 'could have been' souls
wander about
out of context
in a world they cannot understand.
Eventually, they are absorbed into the earth
and become the seeds
of fruit trees
that bare no fruit.

Fitting

2005-01-06T21:25:00.000-08:00

Fitting

There once was a little girl
who possessed a very special gift.
Whatever she read
became the truth.
She was about to read the
bible, but before she could...
Darwin pushed it aside
and forced her to read
The Origin of Species.

And when she had finished,
he grabbed her by the
ankles and dashed her
head against the rocks.

But by that time,
it was okay.

For he proved
to be the most fit.

Thirteen

2005-01-06T19:28:00.000-08:00

A co-worker came up to me the other day and said; 'I notice that you have thirteen cents on each side of the entranceway into your office. What is the significance of the number thirteen?"

In a quick response, I stated that the thirteen cents was to ward off bad luck and assholes, but since he (my co-worker) walked through the door, it obviously wasn't working.

We both laughed and then he left.

But the event got me thinking. Why did I put the thirteen cents on both sides of the door? I remember how it started. One day I found a dime on the floor and put it by the door. As time went on, I found some pennies and placed them with the dime until I got thirteen cents. After getting to thirteen, I stopped and purposely got another thirteen cents to put on the other side of the door. I really don't know why.

So what is the significance of the number thirteen? Below are a few significant 13's.

Well, in the King James version of the Bible, the term 'thirteen' is used a few times the first is mentioned below.

The term thirteen first occurs in Genesis 14:4 it reads, "Twelve years they served Chedorlaomer, and the thirteenth year they rebelled." (Chedorlaomer means servant of the goddess Lagamar.)

Of course, there were a total of thirteen Apostles --if you include Judas and his replacement.

Astronomically, there are thirteen new Moons or thirteen full Moons during every solar year. There are thirteen days of the waxing Moon culminating in the Full Moon on the fourteenth day. There are, in like manner, thirteen days of the waning Moon cycle culminating in what is called Dark Moon (no moon visible in the sky), which is also known as New Moon.

The thirteenth day is the day of rest after the infamous 'Twelve Days of Christmas'.

The 'free' donut in the box that somehow accompanies the other twelve when claiming a dozen in the grocery checkout line.

Tibet

2005-01-04T19:14:00.000-08:00

Tibet

Oops, we dropped Tibet
and spilled it into Sprite Commercials.
My aren't those monks, so quaint.
Why don't they put Christ in a Nike commercial
out running the lions, or the Romans
or us.

'Just Buy it'

and then we go to Hell
but it turns out
it was overtaken in a hostile bidding
war by AT&T.

And God Delivered His (or Her) Judgment

2005-01-04T16:54:00.000-08:00

For there shall arise false Christs, and false
prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders;
insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall
deceive the very elect.
--Mathew 24:24

One day in the height of the shopping season, there arose a great clamor at the Templeview Mall. A great blue light descended from the heavens. Clouds flecked with gold and silver flittered through the entire region and surrounding parking zones. It was this distraction that allowed Mark Filbert to steal a space from parking space competitor Zeke Trump. Zeke had shown weakness and allowed himself to become distracted. As Zeke walked the mile and a half to the mall employees door, he knew the mean man who stole his parking place would receive his just desserts. Too upset by trivial events and tied up in his own world of petty revenge, Zeke failed to notice the anarchy around him and entered the mall. As Zeke's shadow disappeared into the employee's only door, the light became brighter and brighter until all that could be seen was the blue glowing light that emanated from far atop Templeview Mall.

Then the mall shook and the whirlwinds changed their consistency to dust and fire. They danced the mall's circumference wreaking havoc on all that would move, or even think of it. The shaking of the mall intensified and fissures and crevices shot forth upon the ground projecting as earthbound rays from the ambit of the mall in all directions upon the earth. The mall rose from it's foundations and soared into the air, leaving behind the sewage pipes of a thousand disemboweled toilets longing to be reattached to their receptacles. Instead, ethereal ladders descended from the upthrust mall allowing any brave soul the ability to climb into the sky toward the bargains of a life time. But none moved. Fear had shook the promise of a bargain from the consumer's minds and the evil spirit of commercialism slid back and recoiled from the bright blue light as if someone had bruised it's head.

Inside the mall, the center fountain shot up to thirty cubits in height and the roof of the mall was ripped away as the source of the blue light descended as a feather from a dove's wing onto the platform in the midst of the great mall fountain. The fountain walls broke and the miniature dam let forth its water into the whole mall, but instead of the trickle it used to be, the water now surged forth wildly with more zeal than it had ever shown before. It's flood carried with it the loose pocket change of a thousand wishers and chased the credit card lenders from the Templeview Mall. At the sight of all this upheaval and water, Zeke the mall custodian, went to get his mop.

Then those unfortunate enough to have been inside the mall witnessed the beginning of a new era. The Mall Dwellers came one by one out of every shop and store drawn for some inexplicable reason toward the light. But as they approached the water, it raged and gushed to the point of frenzy making passage unbearable. For those wearing imported silk shirts and blouses hesitated fearful of the damage the unruly water would inflict upon their purchases. At this hesitation, the light turned red and arcs of energy bolted forth and singed the silk shirts ruining them as if an iron had pressed them that was too hot. The multitudes cried out and begged for forgiveness and they rubbed cigarette ashes on their foreheads to show repentance. Then, as the light again returned to a comforting blue, they slowly stood and approached the raging waters. Zeke, as if overcome by something greater, stood in the lead and thrust his mop into the wild flood. The waters parted and there was dry marble on which the Mall Dwellers could walk, and even though the waters raged on both sides of them, they were granted safe passage to the platform beyond.

Zeke stood closest to the light. After a moment, he again raised his mop and the waters resumed their wild frenzy, but the Mall Dwellers were safely on the center platform. Then Zeke turned toward the Mall Dwellers and although no human words were used, they knew what needed to be done. For some unknown reason they felt compelled to organize themselves into twelve assemblies. In future generations, these twelve assemblies will come to be known as the Twelve Cliques of the Mall Dwellers and their genealogy would be traced from generation to generation in order to keep there bloodlines distinct so that each Clique would be able to perform it's assigned duties with the blessing of the blue light.

Then the light quivered and a low and deep voice rattled the air and the vibration brought many a Mall Dweller to the point of fear --except, of course, for those of the Clique of Victoria Secrets who were inwardly excited and swooned with red faces and increased heart rates. The language spoken was one that spoke directly into the hearts of the Mall Dwellers and the words were imparted as gently as a mother's kiss...

"I have come to deliver judgments on the mortals of this planet. Though this judgment is final it will not be done in mass. Judgments will be done on an individual basis. You, the Twelve Cliques of the Mall Dwellers, will be given specific tasks in order to prepare mankind for their reward, or punishment. Since it would not be equitable to judge in accordance to any kind of order, it will be done randomly with no preference to the living, or the dead, or any other discriminating status or data. If any of those present would disagree with this method now, or at any point in the future, complaints and suggestions will be accepted in the mall office."

With that said, the mall directory was ripped off it's pedestal and the blue light etched on it's surface the responsibilities of each Clique. The light then handed them to Zeke to deliver to his people. But as Zeke approached the Mall Dwellers, he heard them in dissension murmuring against the light. The Clique of Arcade Players protested at the loss of their quarters, the Clique of the House of Hair complained of shortages to their electrical appliances, and the Clique of Cinemas wanted to charge admission for mankind to attend their own judgment. Zeke, in a fit of indignation, threw down the mall directory and cursed them for their conduct.

Coming to his senses, Zeke looked down at the shattered directory in horror. The Cliques had also realized the importance of what just transpired and again repented of their murmurings, but now was a crucial time in the history of the Mall Dwellers and for all of mankind. For now it was up to Zeke's memory, to try and recall what the blue light had written. He toiled for days stressing over each word. Painfully he tried to reconstruct the directory as best he could. His best done, he presented it to his people and they read and they learned. Zeke hoped everything the blue light had written was accounted for and he hoped he had gotten it mostly right, but Zeke had never been too good with numbers and now he regretted not trying harder in school. For the next forty years, he would have doubts and nightmares about this event, and just a little guilt about rearranging the names on the list to be judged.

After some time, the blue light again spoke. He gathered together his Cliques and took the list back from Zeke. "I will now begin. The first person to receive judgment will be Mark Filbert. It seems that Mark has a propensity to steal parking places. For this, he is condemned to the hell of waiting on a red light that will not change. A police cruiser will be sitting directly behind him and this punishment will be performed in a state with no right on red laws..."

Then Zeke awoke. But he knew this was no dream. It was a sign that he would be the prophet in the wild preparing for the coming of the light. He picked up his mop and walked shoeless to the nearest K-Mart and waited patiently for the next blue light special.

Blood Ghosts

2005-01-04T16:17:00.000-08:00

This is my great grandfather Cyrenus "Yank" Toothman. He was born November 30th, 1852 and he died September 20, 1937.

Blood Ghosts

blood ghosts stretch
hand in hand
back through my father
and dance into the blood of
my sons

pale ghosts
choking on the black dust
of west virginia coal mines

daring ghosts
that lick the salt of
the atlantic from their
fearful lips

and the ghosts
of countless strangers
that have lapsed into prehistory
but still spiral
inside me
and whisper wisdom
to keep me safe...

so that i too
may become a ghost
and whisper
to my children's
souls.

Dreams of Black Bricks

2005-01-02T16:19:00.000-08:00

Dreams of Black Bricks

She is the darkness that forms
the tunnel that leads
to the bright light
we journey to upon death.

The calm allurement
that gives rest
to overwhelmed eyes
searching for saviors.

But pause too long
and she'll swallow you up
with a slurp and a belch
and you'll become
another black brick
lengthening the tunnel
to God.

Year of the Rooster

2005-01-02T15:20:00.000-08:00

I went to my favorite Chinese restaurant earlier this week and found out that I was a cock. No, really! I was born in the year of the Rooster (1969). I also found out that the year of the Rooster is coming around again and that 2005 (on the Chinese Calendar) begins on 2/9/2005.

Soon it will be my year --my year!

According to various Chinese calendars (literally, calendars you get from Chinese restaurants (I collect them)) Roosters are very loyal individuals. They do not like dishonesty or mockery of any sort. They are blunt, up front and honest people and expect those around them to be the same. Roosters are happiest when others surround them, at a party or just a social gathering. They even enjoy the spotlight and will exhibit their charisma and wit in a minute. This star quality can be overbearing, for a Rooster expects you to listen to him while he speaks and can become agitated if you don't. Roosters do have a tendency to brag about themselves and their achievements and demand an attentive audience when doing so. The Rooster is a flamboyant personality, feisty and obstinate. He is quite the extrovert who loves to strut his stuff and is proud of whom he is. Outwardly confident, the Rooster is also a trustworthy, hardworking individual. He'll tell it like it is with no qualms or reservations.

Apparently, the characteristics of the Rooster are tempered by one of the five Chinese elements of Metal, Water, Wood, Fire and Earth overlaying a 5-year cycle of characteristics on the original 12-year cycle. Since I was born in 1969 that makes me an EARTH ROOSTER.

An Earth Rooster is overtly organized. He is a little reserved and quite careful in his decision-making. These Roosters are hard workers as well, and can handle several tasks at once. They are detail-oriented who are quite efficient and self-sufficient. They take on responsibility without a cause and are motivated only in wanting to be successful. Sometimes they can be abrasive with colleagues if work is not up to their standards. This can cause resentment, so the Earth Rooster must be careful in his approach of his point of view, being sure to be honest and still kind.

The Rooster's Western Counterpart is the Virgo. I already knew that. I'm not a horoscope fanatic or anything but did know my sign. What I didn't know is that being a VIRGO ROOSTER also has an impact on my personality. Virgo Roosters are logical, equipped to handle tasks others may turn away. They are overtly detail-oriented, sometimes annoyingly so. They can be critical and mistakenly mean if they do not choose their words carefully.

In other words, I am a cock. My wife was right after all!

Research for the following entry can be found at U.S. Bridal Guide and China Pages.

Angel Hunter

2005-01-02T08:43:00.000-08:00

Angel Hunter

My oldest son is the 'Name-Giver' of kittens in my small tribe. This little kitten was christened 'Butter Nut' (we may never know why). Kittens make great Christmas decorations; of course they are jealous ornaments and usually chase the others away.

Christmas tree tops are his hunting ground. The mighty Butter Nut stalks his divine prey --porcelain angels with motorized wings. Once he throws them to the floor he meows in triumph! After all, angels are nothing more than birds that have forgotten their place in the food chain --so says Butter Nut.

Unraveled Strands

2005-01-01T21:27:00.000-08:00

This is a picture of Lucile Preysz --wife of Louis R. F. Preysz (my wife's great grandfather).

Unraveled Strands

"Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself."
--Chief Seattle

When she is with others,
she unwinds and unravels a bit
and the filaments from the frayed edges
of her soul stretch forth
and seeks to weave with those around her.

In the past, she was more liberal with herself,
but loss has made her hesitant.
(She had been woven with others
and lost too much of herself
when the strands were severed.)

As time took its due,
pieces of her soul
were buried with others
as death severed deep bonds.

With a chill, she feared a time
when there would be more of her
buried with others
than wrapped around her own core.
(The wisdom of age later gave insight
that she had no core
--just strands of soul unraveling, letting go.)

She was spreading too thin now,
as is the case when one grows older.

Strands still linked her to her children,
a friendly ex-husband,
a few friends, and even
the cat purring contently on her lap.

Soon she will be pulled a part
and all that remains
will be a scattered spirit,
memories of shelter,
and a golden strand woven in my soul.

Christmas in Fairhope at Night

2005-01-01T19:40:00.000-08:00

Fairhope really lights up for the Holiday Season. Tremendous view --not sure if the picture captures the magic.

Plucking Angels

2005-01-01T17:52:00.000-08:00

Louis Boulanger 1806-1867, "Witch's Sabbath"(Souvenir of Victor Hupo), 1828, Lithograph

Plucking Angels

The sun is fat
pregnant with hydrogen angels.
They scrutinize, take notes,
and pinch dreams
from sunburned flesh
with scorched tweezers.

But tweezers fail in prolific dreamers
and they must initiate
more drastic measures.

The soul is removed.
Ripped from charred flesh,
thrust in a prism
and inundated with sunlight.
(This forces the dreamer
to show their true colors
in vibrant agonizing detail.)

Naked, burnt and
placed on public display,
these imprismed souls
try to shut constricted eyes
only to realize
their lids are stapled
to their brow
in order for them to fully face
the sun’s radiant ridicule.

Later,
when the gloating glaring orb
sets with a brilliant yawn
after a day full of taunts and smirks…

The night whispers soothing songs
during the witching hour
and the moon re-plants
the dreaming seeds
deep within the soul, hidden
far from the plucking angels.

From France

2005-01-01T17:33:00.000-08:00

This is my father, my grandfather, and the La Touraine (the ship my grandfather traveled on from the port in La Havre, France when he immigrated to America.)

World War II

2005-01-01T16:38:00.000-08:00

My father in WWII.