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.

Angels Intent on Falling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everbreak

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

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