This dream lied.


In my dreams, you
surprised me
with a kiss on my cheek.

It was after homework, pages
upon pages, of useless drivel
that you kiss me
in my sleep,
in this dream.

I was huddled in a blanket;
had there been a fire
at a fireplace; I
would have nearby,
a cocoon against the wall.

But you kissed my cheek
and woke me, and none of
my words could express
what little I understood
how much I wanted that
cool, soft, sweet kiss
on my bare cheek.

In my dreams, you
bade me welcome and
led me by the hand to
your night of blue haze,
soft lights, cool air,
gray shadows, and satin sheets.

There we slept, or tried to sleep,
in my dreams. Here, with your head
upon my chest, I am awake;
while you pretend, with the softness
of your breath, to dream.

But when I wake up,
I pretend
that you did not just waste my time
cos dreams, shmeams, babe:
a flake’s a flake
and you

fucked up.



“Remember this: a thief is a man in need, a liar is a man in fear, the hunter who is hunted by the watchman of your night is also hunted by the watchmen of his own darkness.

“I would have you pity them all.

“Should they seek your house, see that you open your door and bid them sit at your board. If you do not accept them you shall not be free from whatever they have commited.”
–Khalil Gibran, Jesus the Son of Man

I, once and forever, am sinner
I lie, I steal, I kill
with my heart and with my mind.

My soul is sinner, my soul is ravenous.
I seek in others where I would lack.
I seek in riches where mine is empty.
I seek in love, where none is in me,
and take from others what others find dear,
to take as I want from those whose trust
I have built like a castle,
whose walls are mortared to fall
and fall completely on the heads of none
who are innocent, for none are innocent.

I would ask only that I be saved,
yet I must fail, for my longing is black.

My heart is not pure. My mind is not still.

I only ask that I would save myself, but
I would fall, and fall completely I will,
upon my own head and my own bones
that will break, and break completely,
for I am brittle and I am weak,
for I am unforgiving, as unforgiving is,
in the face of the sun, and the sun is unforgiving.

Yes, I am sinner, for I would be saved.
I will not be saved, myself, by myself,
but I must be saved, and if not by you


I will not, cannot, save myself,
so we might as well save each other.


Myth and Magic once wore
leapt tall buildings, and stopped
speeding trains
with but a finger, a thought,
a smile.

They were brothers,
Myth and Magic.
Where one was
the other was
each was called, each took heed,
and jumped every fray.

But now they
underneath a mountain, these
of days when man was forged of
and evil was
bug-eyed, gray, and flying in saucers.

Boy’s Club

We are but a bramble of
with not a single rose among
Black, barren, and brittle,
dry, creeping, and rambling,
are all that we are without a hint
of color
to invite the butterflies.

will not be found
nor bees to take them to
fields and meadows of gold,
nor gods to find them,
to fill their halls
with joy.

are poison without the
blight without the
and suffocating cigar smoke without the
if not for the soft
that rain from the sky
and fill our crumbling books with

Black Magic Bullet

These are my spells:
tucked in beneath my pillow.
They were written when I saw your
and colors shift
like a rainbow painted on water,
placid, rippling,
then shaken astir.

These are my curses:
scalpels peeling skin off my enemies,
“I do not love you.”
“I will never love you.”
They were written when the
sickeningly sweet smell of
cast off its blanket of wheathered newspapers
and made you icon on a pedestal
of cardboard, concrete, and dust.

These are my blessing:
A smile, a kiss, and a warm
like the scent of a pillow dried in the
“I do love you.”
“I have always loved you.”
They were written on the breath of a
when first you heard and slept
to your grandmother’s bedtime story
as she held your hand.

These are my glamours:
empty crosswords
without answers.
“Will she love me?”
“Will I love her?”
They were written with fog on the
promises of a vampire you
bid past
your bedroom threshold.

These are my illusions:
idle thoughts and migraines
trapped in a bubble
that will not burst.
“What is love?”
“What if, love?”
They were written in
when first you came
to confess
to every therapist on the phonebook
and begged for
Prozac, and

These are my enchantments:
the smell
of breasts heavy with milk and honey.
“Oh yes, I have loved!”
“Oh how, I have loved!”
They were written on the rays of
the sun
beaming down through the open rafters to
your lover’s face
on an early Sunday morning.

This is my magic:
one thing meaning another
like turning wine into water.
They were written
when first you knew


What is life

without a little poison?
Dips off cups of
wine laced with debauchery and
and sweet, sweet nectar
fit not for Gods
but worms.

What is life without a little
rot to fill my lungs
with acrid air and a wounded throat?

What is life without a little tint of black
on my teeth
and my heart
if only to show a hint of gold in there

Oh yes, such pain, such joy
in finding one’s bones
crackle and pop
as meager table scraps of affection afflict
the mind
with terrible, terrible bouts of delusion.

Melancholy is bitter sweet
for a reason. It would not have come
to be
had not we been fated
to love

what will not love us back.

Sky loves mountain

The horizon is
on her side.
Her soft silhouette
dips and rises
against me, my place
her. I hold her

I watch her
I drink of her lush, verdant
savor her scent of
morning dew
and dream of
when we were both