sweet satiny sleep, wrap me in your billowing sails of crimson. Take from me this gnarled cross whose weight doth drive through calloused soles these sharp shards of life.

You came into my life
When all was lost
There was no moon,
the stars had died
and all around was darkness.

I had lost my heart, my soul
and in the black, lost my way
I couldn't see the road before me
I couldn't go, I couldn't stay


Then out of nowhere right before me
stood an Angel all aglow
Lighting the scary darkened path
and showing me the way to go

The stars came back, Heaven was lit
Behind me the moon began to rise
The path grew brighter and I could see
The Angel had opened my closed eyes

I don't know when that Angel left me
for she left as quickly as she came
but she led me from that forsaken path
and I knew my life would never be the same!

He was alone
Far from home
Isolated by bullets
As he bled on sand and stone

The explosion triggering the attack
Crushed vertebrae in a brother's back
A bullet tore through another's arm
The wound left a prominent scar

Through the radio, the lone voice of the isolated soldier:
"I've been shot...and it's bad."

Upon reaching the fallen, the medic knew from ****** experience
That his friend was a living corpse, dying is a process
Doc prayed he was wrong
He wasn't

Next week, next firefight
Their blood paid for our blood
Pray it meant something in the end

an eclipse,
a magical yet temporal event,
where the sun and the moon collide,
but it is temporal,
it lasts long enough for them
to realize they do not
belong together.
and we were an eclipse;
you were the sun,
and I was the moon,
when we collided
we created art
                            but
                           ­           we
                                              we­re
                                                       temporal

                                                     ­                        (b.c.)

I am writing this as
I stand -beer in hand- watching
Neil Gaiman being

Interviewed on stage in
Oslo. He has more to say
Than many, to poets

And those living lives; others.
"Writing is like composting.  
You have an idea. You

Leave it to rot... and
Things will grow
From it."

Does she know the silver chain wrapping
Around her ankle is terminal and deep
As a trans-Atlantic cable connecting the island
And here.

That a single full-breasted pull
On a summer cigarette was
Life altering.
Her body was beach-burned, her hands
Sifted grains of sand
Funnelling beneath her thread-bare towel.

Our silver natal thread contracted
As the blue smoke rose,
Magnifying the August moon.
Three hundred moons have dimmed.

We walked in step from the Village
Through the park with the slack chain
Dragging, scraping on cement.
I have often polished that chain,
Used muriatic acid to untarnish.

We didn't know our brains would
Become onions behind our eyes;
We didn't know towels would become
Patchworks stitched over bones.
I didn't know a chain of being could snap.

And I sort of fell in love with plastic cups.
The ability to fall, and never break apart.
Because, as for me.
I'm just a glass positioned a little to close to the edge of the table.