Thursday, March 27, 2008


A crow in the field, a grin on the moon,
many have left but I’ll see them all soon;
the corn in the silo is planted again
and the roots trace the memories of where it has been.

We keep the wheels spinning
and keep the lights on,
it’s not the sky’s moving
that brings us the dawn -
I traded a queen
for a fistful of pawns,
a hundred years on
and we all will be gone.

The sounds of the city, the sounds of the sea,
they both sound like far away laughter to me,
the radio playing in a ten-dollar room
sounds like the sweeping of somebody’s broom.

The names that we leave
are just words on a stone,
it’s not by our shadows
we see how we’ve grown -
I traded my heart
for a chest full of bones,
a hundred years on
and we’ll all be alone.

Some swallowed by fever, some stolen by knife,
some melt like snow in the spring of their life.
Some shine like stars to deny dark the night,
some smile and whisper we’ll all be all right.

The blooms in your hair
whither there on your head;
I wish there was something
more to be said -
I traded forever
for a night in your bed,
a hundred years on
and we all will be dead,
a hundred years on
and we all
will be dead.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Whose is Not

The prettiest girl
I never knew
to me
gave she
on this
to chew

There’s not a thing
you can not
to get another’s heart
to sing
but if it’s all
you thought you meant
you’ll wonder where
the could have

The strongest man
I wish I was
had a fistful
of because

Seldom very
needed more
beat Why
and crushed
What For

The prettiest girl
I never heard
sat straight and
a little

Gold and green
upon a
better knew
than speak
in church

The coldest man
I am become
finds his nose
upon his thumb

To those
whom would him
seek to
falling slow
he gave
a shove

The prettiest girl
I never met
has not
to me
spoken yet

But I’m sure
that soon she
waiting by her

half my

and lose it
in a

Thursday, March 13, 2008


sorry – this poem has been removed due to some delusional endeavor to get published. i’ll put it back once i come to my senses.

Thursday, March 6, 2008


Stooping by an empty bed
sand falls from my
windswept head
the prophets said
drags the sun
into the sea

Bottled pleas on restless waves
drift above
forgotten graves
where the sovereigns
and the slaves
lose their names
to history

Cream and almonds with the queen
rats steal through
the brigantines
the prophets dreamed
hauls the moon up
with the tide

Reefs born up from sunken ships
clumsy prayers
fall from my lips
where the heart and head
is where the bow and blood