The vermilion of your soul
glows brighter than fire;
I want the warmth, your warmth,
hides me in a cloak of safety,
shields me from myself.

You seem so near, so near,
let me come near to you too.
Come into my heart, so that
I may enter yours.


I took the picture from its hallowed frame

I took the picture from its hallowed frame,
peering into eyes squinted against the sunlight
from years that have slipped away from us.
We were younger then, loved each other then
the best way we knew how.
That is what was left
on the glass and black-stained wood.
I thought it was a great frame to
showcase how much I loved you,
but every time it met my gaze, I
shuddered with the shames I could not
bear to give a name.
Thought I’d take it with me always,
but I kept it hidden in the confines
of a musty closet: hidden from every eye,
every face, every scrutiny.

I sigh when I take the photo from
the back. I can’t tear it up.
I just can’t.
I slip it into a crevasse of an abandoned box,
hoping it will find peace there.
A memory never dies until the two
who share it die.
A new visage rests in the hallowed frame;
a gift to a worthier soul.
And what remains of you and I?
Dust. Nightcall by Kavinsky

Was it life before you?

Tenderly, softly, I kiss your
sweet, slumbering body;
your chest rises and falls
like waves upon an ocean,
and I hear your breaths,
counting mine in syncopated ins
and outs.
My hands trace your silken skin,
the contours in the dim,
moonlit bed so near
to me I can only close
my eyes and pray
wordlessly to the powers that be,
thanking them/it/someone/anything? for
placing you in my life. Was it
life before you?
Then I nestle my face next to yours.
You dream, you peacefully dream.
I hold your face as if it was glass,
shut my eyes for a 4:00 vesper,
genuflecting to myself with
a rosary of hearts in my hand.
Mother Mary, anyone, anything that
cares to listen…even if the power
is only within me, only me:
I pray to you, make this man
my husband.


It is morn.
There is a god that I pray to
in which I don’t even believe.
A god who won’t protect me.
A god who I can’t even say.
There are words to accept,
but only in name.
I give my soul to a lord with
no heart and no face.

Here is my absolution, my confession
of sin by diving in waters cold and
standing before crowds of faces
I’ve known since birth.
Here is my restitution; I have
pleased those who cared
to see me walk into the arms
of God. But it is a god
who remains silent
and a god of crackers and juice. Later,
I spit the blood and body from my mouth.

Nocturn (Open-eyed Dream)

Farther and farther the edge of darkness climbs;
the ruby-chested moon ascend the throne,
and diamonds from a world beyond bejewel
the velvet cloak that surrounds my plain of being.
It is changing, but the stillness remains.

I stretch my hand, hoping to pull a piece
of night from the veil, hoping to
remind myself of the souls I left to
their devices. I can feel them: moving,
meandering, floating but never knowing.
Come to me, I call, but the language
of the living becomes faint to the dead.

Darling, beckon me from the shadow.
Darling, yes, darling there is a dawn
approaching. I think you see it as I
do, I think, I think.
I wait beyond the cold mist;
drink of the dew and you will find me.

I’m Fine (Never Been Better)

I sometimes wake before dawn,
pacing the tiled, cold floors with a
slow, silent step, searching for the
piece, the object to settle me back
into dark sleep, into the dream.

Thoughts: they are the persons
that speak and watch as I pull
back the veil, peering meekly
beyond the tattered strands of
hearts, sinews of faces long left silent.
When the reflection is shown in the
holed out concrete, I can see only
myself with a figure made ever clearer;
the blight that clings to my bones
dies and withers in the light.

Here comes the blue, the red,
the gold mingling in a bruised sky.
He must be here in me.
I’ve never been better, never
been happier to know
that there is something more
promising than I’ve ever known.
Come here, whispering moth:
let me tell you the good news.

I’m convinced

I’m convinced that I would save the world
for you; save this transient way of being
so that we can enjoy the dance
few know, few touch, few speak of.

I’m convinced that I would sever
the throat of time if it would mean
having you in my arms forever,
if it meant facing the threat of death
head on with silent fervor, fatal intent-
silver blade held firm, clutched in white knuckled fists;
I overthrow the angels in morning light,
but I can’t take God up on his offer.

I’m convinced that you are one universe,
connecting with my own to form a
grand design half revealed.
I’m convinced that you are a revelation.

Darling, to you

I imagine you in wreaths in citrine light,

descending upon me in meadows,

concealing me in amber fields.

Your body is my temple, and mine is yours,

but my exaltation breathlessly resounds

in the rushed whispers silked in passion.

When I peer into your cerulean spheres of sky

and time, I can only gaze in amazement.

I don’t need you to know I’m incredible

The thought plagues me;
I wonder-while I sift through
the tall grasses, looking for
nothing in particular-if
you ever regret losing me
to your own agenda.
When I tell you of
the things I’ve done-
what I’ve done since we
severed our final ties as lovers-
you offer up accolades and
assure me of my beauty.
You tell me I’m beautiful,
I’m awesome, I’m amazing,
but none of that made me
easier to love?