Monday, May 16, 2016

Windows on the world

In the window
They did all things,
Yet not a thing.
I saw them there,
But knew nothing,
Knowing just what
They were doing,
Which was no good.

In the night-street
They moved as one,
A cloud of smoke
Drifting through air.
Like hungry ghosts
Never sated,
On a treadmill
Run by cravings.

In my own mind
All moved unsynced
Like stop motion.
Time passed faster
Where I marked it,
And eddies slowed
The rest, looped it
Back on itself.

In the world
I moved somehow
Appeared here-there,
Never crossing
Spaces between.
Keeping alive
By tracing steps
Saner than mine.

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Seductive Falsehood

I'm reincarnated daily as a roach
Just flattened by size nines,
or the cardboard litter crushed
by big rigs, overrun roadside.
As roadkill rotting unburied
and bloody on the barren shoulder
of a rumble-furrowed stretched I-five.

One day this soul-sapping samsara
Will a wakeless me release
To nirvana, non-arising nothing,
And it will be a grave relief―
Like an empty epitaph in stone,
And cries and sighs and lies and eyes
Of assembled succors mourning grief.

Friday, April 22, 2016


A need
A heart
A hole
To start
In the chest
Singed with the rest
Desire consumes
Flames burst in plumes
Ash burnt to ash
My love turned to flame
Yearns as it hurts
To take up a new pain
To find one to be with
For having and holding
(And having
and smoldering)
I hold on to my lonesome
Own soul and its loathing
Its pressure imploding
Desperate imposing
Sick from controlling
Suppressing my nature
Spurning and churning
And writhing, aloning
Feels like atoning
Whip that I'm holding
Trapped by the anxious
Heart that desires
First for itself
But for no mental health
Holds back from expression
Like invisible teeth
Biting tongue from the question:
Are you one to be with:
Someone to love,
Full Eros to bare you,
Or yet another
Missed by love's arrow?
Plenty platonic,
Search made too narrow
Do I look in wrong places
Or approach incorrectly
Is it my fate to remain
Aloof and alone
A life on my own
With attractive companions
I wish would be champions
Direct with a line
To my vena amoris
Which has no connection
But breeds an infection
Of bitter disease
Sowing unease
In how I relate
To the world around me,
Reacting still badly
To love that surrounds me
That I see as granted
Stuck in persepctive
That keeps me entrapped
In the wires
Wound around me
Set by myself
Me my own enemy
No other
But he—
Is me.

Stuck as I am
Wounded so deeply
For want of help,
Want of love
No Invictus am I,
My heart just burns out
And through me;
The cavity exposed
Nothing left
But a hole.

Sunday, March 13, 2016

Construction Time

An army of hammers
deployed in the morning
To pound sleep to death
in a war on peacefulness


Reflected noise
on winter hillsides;
the bare branches

Saturday, February 27, 2016

Coloring in the Dark

Re: Christian Blogger: Adult Coloring Books with Mandalas Open the Door to Demons

Is it really about coloring? 
Or is it about spiritual hosts of wickedness sneaking mandalas into our homes and into our subconscious minds?
When you became an adult, you put away childish things. You thought coloring was for children, and you put that away, too.

But eventually it found you again, as if a thing possessed of its own intelligence. A thing writhing in the night in its groping search of sustenance: sustenance from the light. Things of the darkness crave the light, yet, when met by it, shrink back from it. But it was not always so.

Through tentacles optical and electronic, something about this viral discovery was too infectious; it compelled your fingers to clutch at it virtually, then to same-day ship and claw your way through the packaging, to tear from it a new heart for yourself. Something light and fun, from old times.

But it was in truth a dark heart.

You thought it relaxing, you found it soothing. You could unwind and let your thoughts unreel after lengthy days in offices, on buses, in cars, moving children to and fro.

Your heart was gladdened at the new sense of peacefulness you had brought into your life with a single Amazonian click and a small amount of time set aside each week to fill in those empty spaces. Spaces which, when filled, would seem also to fill in your long-festering sense of emptiness within.
But you were deceived. For the Amazon is thick and deep, and men know not what lies within its unseen tangles. Within lies a heart of darkness to rival the darkest depths of the Congo; the most sinister story spun by Conrad or Coppola is no match for it. Great men's imaginings are but pale imitations of its pure obsidian reality.

For we are killing it, you see. We are killing darkness with our machines and artificial lights, and it will not go gently, that good night. It has a brutal, bloody history. It has a newly-whetted thirst for our blood to flow, as it once did down the steps of ancient pyramids and into the sticks of witchcraft trial pyres. It has our ultimate conviction and is ready to sentence.

It enacts its twisted justice through dark rites, dark rites overseen by dark eyes unseen in the night. Human beings gone mad and manic, gripped in hysteria reaching fever-pitch echoing crescendos of murder.

Some would call it the work of devils, ironically carried out in the name of the Light.

Who is more deviously deleterious than a devil, the very namesake of deviousness?

Creeping in at the margins of awareness, their unseen seeds begin to germinate.

None of this occurs to you as you color in your book much as you had done when young―now with a more pronounced mortal fear―filling in the spaces of seemingly anarchic patterns, non-objective symbolic works beckoning your idle hands to some purpose, some curves containing unseen menace. Each arc like a tendril wending its way into your heart. Seeming to calm, but gradually, slowly, scheming to darken; for symbols have power.

You will not turn back from it. When the pages have all of their spaces filled, the emptiness will creep back into you. Unconsciously we all know this: all things are empty. It's why we cling so desperately to that which makes the empty feelings go away, if only temporarily.

And thus will you come to crave this act of coloring as though it were a drug or cathartic rite.
What harm could it be? It brings joy into your heart, joy from old times. But there, behind it: when interrupted, when called away by your lively duties: a hate from old times. Like the bogeyman you feared in the darkness before your mind learned to filter that terror out.

But still it persists, on the edge of consciousness.

Resentment starts, insidiously turning you against your fellows.

Those patterns–those inscrutable designs. What are they, the mandalas? Are they seals laid down by some ancient evil, or perhaps by men and women who triumphed over it temporarily in ancient days? Just as we triumph temporarily over our personal emptiness, never winning permanent victory. Their once potent symbols, seals, touched by you and a million other human hands in peaceful moments.
Unknown to you, your touch is weakening the seal. Symbolizing the cosmos, human touch corrupts it, brings it closer to spilling its contents and the longing in your heart infects it.

Duplicated by endless modern mass-production; fractional energy imparted to it and absorbed as if you had stepped over a grave, or broken the edge of a summoning circle meant as a locus to focus Satan himself.

Each touch weakening the seal. Each touch gradually leaching through that osmosis of evil things into your soul and mind. Lulling you into a false peace: assuring you that all is well when destruction is nigh.

My friends, you must steel yourselves for the battle ahead of all of us. Do not be an idle participant; choose your side as I have chosen. An ancient slumber is soon to be broken, and on that day, the truth of the terror in the darkness will creep and scream back into the world. From the darkest, hidden recesses of your mind it will amass, poisoning your relationships, bringing strife where before there had been peace. Peace of mind will give way to conflict, and even the righteous will, in their fear, be swayed to heinous acts, puppets all.

So keep coloring. I'll make no attempt to dissuade you. I am doing my part to break the seal, to let it enter into my soul, to bring that day that it may make of me a puppet imbued with purpose, only to be broken and discarded when our play-acting at being human things is done, and the dark things within us are ready to crawl out and take the great and terrible stage.

Tuesday, February 2, 2016


The foggy world
Is a faded photograph

Monday, October 12, 2015


As I crunch over
Dry fallen needles below:
Scent of a cedar

Thursday, October 1, 2015


Dogs that bark,
People that bark.

Down off

Lowered & rolled
Down off the bus
By way of machines,
I heard the most
human of yawns.