in the rain-
darkness,     the sunset
being sheathed i sit and
think of you

the holy
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
of smiles

your eyes half-
thrush
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss

and
there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair
and then

your dancesong
soul.     rarely-beloved
a single star is
uttered,and i

think
       of you

Gods, gods, gods.
Let them fight their own battles,
Shed their godblood upon the
Space between the in-betweens
While us mere mortals play
In peace
On Terra Firma.

The crimson linings of the clouds
That shield Heaven from our
Prayers drip drops that leave
Stains in the shape of our children
On battleground surfaces.
The bullets they bite won't fill
Their bellies.

Winter trees in deep sleep under
A thin film of ice; the broken
Water of Winter.
Soon all is white; crystals floating
On the wind between the worlds;
Leaving this one prestine and
Pure, like infant prayer,

Only to arrive at another and be
Stained with war-steel and
The tears of the dying.
Gods with egos:
I fear them more than
A million
Angry men.

Few things are as black
As a snowless December morning

In Norway.
Some nights it's so

Dark I can't
Sleep.

A traditional western Norwegian lullaby, sung by my girlfriend's mother to her in her earliest years. Directly translated from Norwegian.*


It was a lovely, lovely day, and now
That day is over.
All the children that are good
Are sound asleep and dreaming.

The heavens that were happy blue,
With a thousand smiles within'em
Will only start to laugh again
Sometime tomorrow morning.

Come you, cartoonists,
          Hang on a strap with me here
          At seven o'clock in the morning
          On a Halsted street car.

               Take your pencils
               And draw these faces.

Try with your pencils for these crooked faces,
That pig-sticker in one corner--his mouth--
That overall factory girl--her loose cheeks.

               Find for your pencils
               A way to mark your memory
               Of tired empty faces.

               After their night's sleep,
               In the moist dawn
               And cool daybreak,
               Faces
               Tired of wishes,
               Empty of dreams.

a butterfly flirts with me

she stands before me
but turns when i look

then

she fans herself
like a spanish dancer
teases her audience

i wonder if she knows
how captivated i am
by her alluring ways

or

how i'd do anything
to hold on to this
moment

i can only pray
please stay

I think I might be too tired
To be outraged.
I want to stand on my head and
Hands in front of the moon just
Clearing the horizon, and make
Myself into a peace-sign.

The only flag I wish to paste
Over my facebook profile picture
Is a huge, white one.
No more. Please.
Peace.
But all I can do is waste whispers

Underneath the raging roars of
Bloodthirst, revenge and hearts
Vocalizing the pain of their lost
Limbs.
Too tired to be angry.
Too dry to cry.

Victims. Aren't we all?
I draw November air
And exhale something like a
Prayer, as my loved ones walk to
And from work and school like
Potential bulls-eyes in the

Eyes of pure, ******* evil.
I'd cover a grenade
For any one of them. But for now
I stand against the rising moon
Like a capital "I", then
Put my dot of a heart

On the ground directly
Before me, looking
To the skies.
Furiously fatigued; a tired
Human exclamation
Mark.

Eyes of gods upon my
Every move.

I have nothing to hide. Such
Sweet freedom to

Stand for your every sin and
Uncencored secret.  

Back straight, and perfectly
Human.