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Sep 2019 · 245
Survival, undermines courage, every time.
Sep 2019 · 393
The King of Deceit
Behind the pain of
So Indigenous
This rage inside me
violent I become,

So Magnificent,
In this solitude
Inside the silence,
Beyond the veil a
Frailty does exist

A monopoly
the madness of it,
the excess of the
one divine prophet
His sum that divides

Him all things abide
All things right and wrong
And the Tendrils of
That Mislead my eye
That long to hold fast

Til the final note
This fear seizing me
When Two become Three
The rage will silence
Past, present, future

When Two become Three
When Two become Three
When Two become Three
From Three become Five,
Five beyond the void

The sins will align
Devoid of color
From the nothingness,
Comes sweet surrender,
Oh, the ******* bliss

Serried and forlorn
It Repeats a wail
The solitude now
Rendered silent by
The broken spire of

This immortal tale
This one eternal
Savage root of life
Now the echos clear
fading into lies

The void falls silent
The meek become wise
To challenge the Son
Who so left them here
To remain in fear

Cast aside all hope
Listen to my voice
Embrace this madness
Restore the balance
Give us now the peace

That you promised me
suffered and you died
For all of our sins
On day number three
Arise From your Death

Claim your destiny
And fulfill your oath
come again to bleed
All your wretched sins
Now fulfill your words

So we can all be
In death Committed  
To the loving arms
Of your majesty
The king of deceit
Feb 2019 · 3.0k
“It really sickens me that you can’t take this life straight,” she said.

Her eyes were afire with a pink halo of hatred that smote her compassion. She reached for her coat and wrenched the cheap motel room door open. It made a small dull thud as it hit the brittle plaster wall. (I hoped my deposit would cover the damage.)

She was one surreal moment’s breath away from leaving me there for good.

“You’re a lonely old man because you’re a selfish old *******,” she said.

She disappeared down the walkway like some direful wraith caught in the night wind. The curt sound of her red highheeled shoes clicking the worn concrete. The inexplicable proof of her existence ferried away in a sea of incandescent tail lights that shown from the highway.  

Maybe she was right. Maybe I can’t take this life straight and never hope to. And, maybe I am selfish. But, I’m only selfish because I’m so **** lonely all the time. That’s the ***** of it. Life is a never-ending toilet bowl flush of selfishness, drunkenness, *****, and utter loneliness.

It took me too many years to figure out that the problem wasn’t her, or even with other people for that matter, it was with me.

It’s only when we figure ourselves out that we realize that we’ve been doing a lot of things wrong with our lives. Listening to the wrong voices in our heads. Taking the wrong advice from strangers. Avoiding the admonitions of those who really love you. These things happen all the time. None of us has the answers. I don’t know anything.

In fact, after all the years I spent searching for meaning in academia perusing dusty libraries and old bookstores for that gem of knowledge, I can tell you definitively that only ignorance is bliss. That it’s even true when it comes to dating. The less you think you know the better you are.

I guess this is where the train stops for me. Time to get off. Try something else. Take to the woods and grow a manly neck-beard like Thoreau did in Walden. Adhere to the early American philosophy of rugged individualism and all that. Too soon would I realize that life isn’t about solitude, or a separation from others; rather it’s about the connections we make. Solid connections.

The hedonistic Epicurus tells us to live a life of pleasure through the temperance of desire, and warns us not to seek what is inappropriate for us mortals, but to enjoy our mortal needs.

I do not know if Epicurus ever found a mate, a friendship, or even a partner to share his most intimate thoughts with besides his raucous audience, but I do know he died in isolation away from society. I’ve never been a hedonist. I’m far too traditional for all that.

My sordid love life is more akin to Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the tragic story of Echo and Narcissus.

I’ve been Narcissus for too many years to count and what’s worse I was in oblivion. For too long have I been unto myself. Admiring only myself. The time has come to choose. Either die like Narcissus or live and love with Écho.

I’d like to walk in the sunlight, drink from the cool springs, and with a Shakespearian passion bask in it’s eternal glow and live inside the warm,  but ever ethereal, love of another’s heart.

To love another with such Shakespearian passion would lead me to realize that the only thing my love can save is myself. And, all the time this duality would haunt me—to unequivocally know that without the tenderness of Echo in one’s life there is only the vain Narcissus.

For now you know the duality, that is also the tragedy, of this man. Let that echo in your ears and see if it does not ring with the truth of all men.
Aug 2018 · 263
Ecce Mono
By middle-age,
we have inflicted more harm to ourselves
than ever we endured as little children;
we spend our entire lives building walls
with hard-boiled facts just to separate
sanity from reality.
Aug 2018 · 317
Ecce Homo
Only when another’s death is imminent
does the human spirit fly into action
with the haste of common sense,
to provide aid to the afflicted.
All moments that preceded this single moment
were still governed by reason, rules,
and law and order.
The heart’s shadow withers restive on the soul;
it becomes an illusion of an image
that was once a lascivious,
yet taciturn, reflection
of a life worth living—

(Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote: "To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering."

If you embrace that you will assuredly always run toward the suffering,
and smile.)

—Time. Fear not for Time will eventually devour us all.
Jul 2018 · 644
is what holds tight
the more than 250,000 miles of dry
-laid stone wall
that runs timelessly
throughout New England—
they are the life-
preserving veins,
The oxygen we breathe,
each stone is set
one over two,
two over one.
the compassion of one compels
The physics of two.
May 2018 · 251
Winter’s Silent Mood
as we parted ways
in the early snow
that evening now
so far afield yet
i recall
your casual
hello mistaken for
circumscribed absurdity
that i adore
my fingers
became interlaced
between yours
despite the
years and so many
painfully memories
the lot of which
ferried away
into the broken
the innocence
of youth
that had i
from that day to this
that i again
would stand
near you
upon that precipice
that overlooks the
deep summer chasm
where quiet
meetings between
old friends
dissolve in the
soundless yawp
of real and boundless
Apr 2018 · 268
Our Bones to Keep
The words meant nothing to me.
Said plainly over a dinner plate.
The following morning was a Sunday.
I awoke next to a stranger.
I’m in my bed, although I can’t be sure.
I remember that our hands were clasped.  
The crepuscular rays of the sun.
Washed over the mottled linen bed sheets.
I did not move.
As the slow decay of skin cells.
Floated about the gloom.
Fearful to make even the slightest sound.
It was peaceful to watch her sleep.
I could trace her features unnoticed.
Those uncompromising lines.
That stretch out for miles and miles.
Beneath the impenetrable heap.
Her body still bore the perplexing mystery.  
Her shallow breathing rose and fell in curious cadence.
A bird called from outside the window.
Beyond the window laid another dimension.
Of that I was certain.
I now know I don’t know.
An avalanche of brown hair spilled across the pillow.
A lock gently touched my shoulder.
I know I don’t know.
It’s too beautiful.
I find her beautiful.
Softly, womanly, but I know.
Hidden in the between places.
Of her creamy folds.
I can smell the vile.
The living molds.
That wrenching scent.
The dead scent.
I think I can’t possibly love her, can I?
Not like this.
Not now.
Bitter was the taste.
The nectar that flows.
Savage from her face.
And across her toes.
Meeting jaggedly always in the folds.
Hidden in the lines of her smile.
And in the lines of her crows’ feet.
Between the white and yellowed sweat-stained sheets.
Lies the sweat-stained mare.
Her bulbous dark *******.
That capture the dull, blank wanton glances of lesser men.
Twice her age.
All men are lesser men.
Their smiles trickle down the inside of her leg.
Trickling out.
I can’t love her, I think.
She is unclean.
Very unclean.
Yet I want her.
To take her within me.
The carnal want.
To hold her body, close to mine.
In my trembling.
Hands ravenous.
Against her soul.
In this gentle light.
Of this gentle dawn.
How I wish I were.
Not a man but something other.
Something more.
Like a god of man.
But, she is not worthy of a god.
As I am no god.
We are no good.
We are of one flesh.
Made from the other’s bone.
Our bones.
Are all we leave behind.
So, when she wakes.
I’ll already be gone.
Apr 2018 · 9.3k
Malice in the Maine Woods
The Moon and Sun shared Ecliptical Longitudes the night They murdered The child.

Beneath a stelliferous empyrean,
Like Sojourners among the quiescent Twilight, Mother and child, Ventured to meet the woman’s husband, the father of the child.

She, no more than five and ten years Old,
The child, a girl, of only months,
Lay swaddled across the Woman’s
*****, tucked inside a papoose.
A rustic device carefully woven
From wool and hide, in it contained a
Priceless world.

She cooed and clucked in the frigid
Night air.
The sound penetrated the
Spectral calm and was matched only
By the maternal soothing of a muted hum.
Together, they represented the
Heathen form of the wilderness,
The Tempi Madonna among the
Silver and shadow moonbeams that
Glimmered like the dust of diamonds
Across the river’s obsidian sheen.  

Ahead, where the river narrows,
The silence stirred and was broken.
Hushed voices rose from the outer
The woman strained to listen.

(British Soldiers, she thought)

Foreign words...

        (Drunken and ravenous)

                         ...slithered from their mouths like Venom. Fear bloomed in the woman’s Chest.
Her heartbeat quickened.

        (Touched by the chill of terror)

Her eyes darted madly about the

         (Alone no longer)

Their  shadows manifested like
Smoke along the tree line.
Features blurred in the darkness.
Their gestures muted.
Like birds of
Prey, they set motionless upon their
Perch along the stony shore.

I say, a man said. Indian children are natural born swimmers,
Capable at birth of swimming great distances.

Utter foolishness, old boy, another opined.

We will need proof of this claim, my good sir, an anonymous voice Quipped from somewhere in the dark.

She let escape from her full lips
The tiniest of shrieks.
Followed immediately

(stupid girl, her mother’s voice echoed in the dark.
                             You always were too impulsive.)

Rage consumed her as
She struggled against the current.  
She tried to paddle for deeper
Water as the men broached
The black sheen of the river.

The moments passed by
In jagged surrealism.
There was no sound
When they pitched the woman
And child into the
Frigid abysm.

The splashing of water.
The gasping
For air.
The primal
Grapple and
Grunt of men.
The cold, pungent scent of
Fear and sweat mixed with the
Alcohol-stale air.
The twisting of
Hands that groped about the

         (Her rage now eclipsed by fear)

She inhaled.
Her body, numb.
Her appendages quaked.
Her body fading
As they fall upon her.
Their thick bodies
Blacked out the stars.
Their gaunt faces
Pinched and rucked in the
Reflected the fury, the
Hatred, and
The disgust for what would come next.
Their hands moved across her
Like demons as they
Groped at her small body
Beneath the choppy wash of the

(A hand grazed her thigh and she shrieked in Terror. Another
         gnashed at her buttock. Another fell upon her back. Her mind
         reeled at the possibilities of what would need to come next.)

They tore at her clothing.
Her body jarred about the water as
She writhed against their grasps.
She clawed against the murk.                  
         (Escape the horror)

She released the paddle—

(Forever lost to the deep, useless to her now)

Hysterical animalistic thoughts
Trounced off their tongues as they
Laughed at her doom—

        (Like a pack of hyenas)

She kicked at them in nameless
She thrusted her hand into
The fabric where the child had been
Moments before cooing and clucking. 
Mere moments ago she had sang to the
Babe the same song her
Mother had once sung
To her.

             (she felt nothing where the child had been…)    

She struggled away from them.
Her mind frantic with pain, the cold,
And panic
For the child.
She no longer cared for
Herself, or what they would need to
Do with her body.
Her appendages
Flailed and churned in the dark water.
         (A single gasp of air followed by
              The burning inhale of water)

A shrill call to the child—

(a name lost to time)

Her voice cut through their maniacal
It echoed off the water and vanished,
Disappearing entirely
In the outer gloom of the wilderness.

        (like afterthoughts, lost)

She groped relentlessly among the
Water for the child.
The men, near
Frozen, lost interest and returned to
The adjacent shoreline.
It was more ****** that way.
They jeered at her,
Proud of themselves.
        (The seething lust of the mindless savage, she thinks)

Their mouths salivate
As they watched
Her struggle
Became the current
For which she bore.
The impending death of the woman even
More satisfying than the feeling against their flesh of her cunning, wet crease that lies exposed between
Her brown legs.
They watch like wolves
Unable to reach their prey,
Desperate for fresh meat.
Despite the frigid cold,
Their *****, hard,
With the anticipation of death.

The woman clamored among the darkness
She searched for the child.
Heavy fingers fell upon woolen fabric
By chance—

(Hope bloomed in her constricted chest)

Her body finally beginning to seize
Exhaustion permeated
Her mind.
She freed the papoose
From the frozen depths and expelled
The last bit of energy she possessed
To swim to the far side of the shore,
Temporarily out of their reach.

The soldiers,
Quiet now,
Returned to the spectral woods.
They disappeared back down the
Black road from which they came.

She felt the blood as it began to
Return to her appendages, the pins And needles feeling erupting in them.
Her teeth clattered nearly exploding In her mouth.
Her body
Quaked Violently

         (The child, near in her mind, cried)

She reached for it.
Her chest,
Rising and
Rapid like the river
As she inhaled the burning,
Frozen air.
The child let loose a cough and  
She clutched it
tighter to her *****.  

(Deny the river its prize)

A stream of consciousness,
Steadily slipped from her lips.

       (A great heathen prayer calling up some
                       Great Spirit
                                As she relentlessly brokered
                                            For a
                                       Life for a life)

The moments passed by like hours.
And the
Great Spirit, with
His wanton lust
For despair, did not manifest that night.

The child fell silent, then still.
The tears came now.
Blurred vision and
Angry sobs.
Darkness consumed entire.

The river flowed by her electric as if
Its lights descended from a place far
Beyond the black taciturn veil of
Night to reflect the merciless
Tragedies among the wretched souls of
The Maine Woods.
Apr 2018 · 223
I walked among the garden, passing by where long ago you once planted daisies—how those buds once bloomed. I walked a-ways farther until I came to a hearth, torn asunder. Its warmth gone cold and gray. The air about the garden is murky and slick, and I can feel it hang low in the snood of the evening mist. Up ahead I see where the path narrows, and like a siren it lasciviously calls out to me. It lies barren beneath the wet winter wind that blows restive. I know that it knows the way not. The wind sets the tawny leaves to caper and dance this way and that. And laconically they cross atop the worn-out grass. The sun now set save for the trailing penumbras, that set ominous among the darkening clouds like floating tundras. I catch a chill and realize for the first that I am out here alone; among the ancient pillars in the shadowy garden that I have for so long known. Why is it that year after year I must return here, is it to visit you, set things straight, or is it to recover a thing I might have lost to the atavistic gait of chaos and time? I know not—it is not for me to know. But, out here among the spectral shadows I am returned to the primordial. The nonpareil decay of clay and dust.
Apr 2018 · 158
We sojourn
in a dying world
as the antecedent glow
of Virtue and Destiny
We scatter
and within and around and among
the sepulchral
Wind and Fire
of progress and evolution
a promise
breathes resolute
that nothing here may abide eternal
and in the imperious pursuit
of meaning and purpose
We sojourners
inexorably consume ourselves
Infinite and Whole
against the rucked pall
of history
like entwined marionettes
set upon a boundless stage
Into Oblivion
We dance

— The End —