Saturday, August 18, 2018

Without Eyes or Force

my king, my god
barely recognizable in the wind
shining in the moonlight

my king, my god
its shape incomprehensible
in the swirling phenomena
of a myriad structures and forms
that surround it.

It devours all true memory
all sense of the past
is torn away
from underneath me
leaving me cold and alone
hesitant and uncertain.

Here, in this place,
I see
it is thinking that began time,
and language that gave it shape.
And now time stirs
revealing the hidden treasures
of entropy and death.

Certain questions will
forever remain
suspended in space
without answers
without conclusions
vibrant in their
refusal to fall.

behind the black curtain
the night envelops me
and a body
without eyes or force
forever becomes
a sound
vibrating air
somehow shining
in the moonlight.

Wednesday, June 6, 2018


Can I ever know
what happened to the rest of him?

I can picture the room,
the doors made of valuable Nicaraguan wood,
masterpieces on the walls.

I look for him,
and my fingers reach for the future
and everything else slides away.
I grab at the pieces of paper,
the yellow windows,
the names.

Can I find the traces of affection?
The loneliness that
sprung fully formed
in the quiet moments
of tenderness?

His eyes can't be grasped.
In them are tales of monsters
that no one else remembers.

Then I feel a pair of hands
pressing tightly on my stomach.
They take me back to the sky,
to the wooden room,
to the yellow windows.

Saturday, May 12, 2018


Suddenly part of the purple blackness,
the glorious dark begins to tremble.
An idol emerges in the sky,
its body in bondage
its soul tethered to my own.

I was on the bridge
and then a moment later
the bird at my toes began to twinkle,
and turned to pale powder.

I remember a pack of wolves
in their cages
worshiping death.
They were loud enough
that the abyss became the horizon
and the red sky
began to fall.

Broken graves glanced my way,
their texture and smell no longer hidden.
Now I know that was the beginning.
The water's shining light
would soon be pale
in the absence of moonlight.

Friday, April 20, 2018


I was touched
when they passed.
I would never be the same.

It kept on coming
the sweet and gentle
the light ethereal touch
that I would be able to examine
so many years later
on the little pieces of paper
that would emerge from names and numbers
from the invisible that would be
given names and futures
specific locations and shapes
and all the true horrors
of fate and love and loneliness
and a past only partly remembered.

It was a multitude of eyes
that would make love to me
a choir that would tell me stories
of the sky and the gods
and their affections,
of mountain roads so rare
we would never
be able to find them.

They offered me
a complex world of perfection
and reconfigurations
at once true
and never possible.
I stood on a large rock
and I could still see them in the distance.
I let myself cry
Hoping to make myself remember.
I could feel fingers on my chest
on my belly
on my legs
on my crotch
on my forehead.
Fingers that weren’t there
fingers that could never have been
and never would be.
I could feel eyes
long gone and faded into nothing.
I could feel
the invisible circular tenderness
that rarely held on
to the thin
grasp of friends
and books and things
that were never truly present.

I stared at them
and I watched them
slide away into the
passing night
separating into parallel formations
into hands and music,
into tenderness
that became more and more distant
more and more dream-like
more and more a myth
to be forgotten
and discarded as a lie.

I was touched as they passed
I would never be the same.

Tuesday, April 17, 2018


Mood is my body
manifesting itself
through subtle levels
too light to touch
too faint to hold.
The remains of my lost thoughts
fall without making a sound
without leaving a trace.
How do I speak
of harmony
of light
and the process of the rose?
I have come through
twisted from the labyrinth
emerging fully formed
from the tunnels of time.
It is all a colorful pattern
yet fearsome and dark,
a strange loop
where words are arranged
in spiraling currents
a sequence discarding logic
a structure without
a stable frame.
No need here
for a physical body
just a seed
containing the process
and the freedom
that brings it life.
I remain
an unknown mass
a life impulse
a lustful fountain
a fading thought.

Monday, January 29, 2018


We were the seventh group.
Our goals were open and limitless,
Our bodies made of red clay,
red blood, blue lightning.
Our souls without tether.

We had prepared for the voyage
through strict discipline
as instructed.
We had taken the ritual baths
in the mountain temple
for 5 days in a row.
We had been covered in dust
and blankets
and beaten with leather.

Once rising, finally free of dust
and forgetfulness,
they told us we would climb
like a winged bird
towards the sky,
our minds would open
into endless unimaginable landscapes
without the shrouded mist
of our homeland,
without the desolate frozen lakes
of our dying land.

Our newly formed blood
would adapt to the synthetic nutrients,
to the dark brown soil
of the astral ship we were now forming.
For those left behind
we would become part of
the golden rays of sunlight,
a piece of the distant sky.

But certain elements
in the network engineering
began to change our nature.
My companions
hungered for old blood
and I felt waves of a hunger too
even if I couldn’t name it.
We found within ourselves
a desire far greater
than our preconceived nutritional needs.

Somewhere over the horizon
we became creatures of darkness
shadow killers of souls,
and we turned the ship around
and placed within it
the seed of a new message.

We would find a way
To merge
Our desire for flesh
And our wish for the stars.

Friday, December 1, 2017

Rise of the Old King

When the new sun was born the impulse to kiss his remorseless, deathless face had to be held at bay. Slumbering peacefully, the lightest touch would rouse him, incurring the violence we feared and longed for. In our shinning world of straight edges, mirrored glass, blue screens and open source, it was easy to lose track of the other thing, that which lurked in the places we had avoided for so long, the real animal brutality of our own deepest subconsciousness. Emerging from the depths, and not from the skies where we raised our dream machines towards the stars, the old King returned to us from the realms of myth and shadow.

He came from the caves, from the hollow center of our world, a kingdom we had forgotten in our infancy as a race. Somewhere through the ages, in our race for distant suns, we ceased to look down at our own root. The memory of the inner Kingdom faded as the last pages of the world’s most ancient books turned to dust and blew into the cracked walls of crumbling libraries. When the first star was born in a magnetic bottle and its power was harnessed to make the world a fantasy of unending light, we shed that old skin of memory, of dream, shadow, and terror and began the expansion beyond the terrestrial.

In our quest to drink in the light of all the stars our universe could offer, in our dance with infinite space, and a newfound command of movement and time, we found worlds like our own. One in every thousand had the potential to raise life from its mineral rich soil, and on some we found the evidence of civilizations that had flourished and fallen before we had ever even mastered the use of fire. Thus, we learned that there had been life in the universe, but death had won over it.

Among the ruins of tumbled citadels sunk in grey sand dunes beneath the faint glow of a red star we wept. There would be no meeting with the alien other, no exchange of ideas or culture. Our archeological work began. Countless dead worlds came under our scrutiny as the expansion continued. For our biologists there came a few worlds where life was present as rudimentary single celled organisms. We would have to wait and see if our cosmic brethren might someday grow from one of these worlds.

Eventually, the expansion lost its appeal. Our songs had grown cool and calculated, our dreams had flown back to us empty handed. The age of our enlightenment was coming to a close. Our own star was near death for the second time. We had mastered the art of reviving it, yet it was upon this reoccurrence of imminent stellar collapse that we ceased to resist and plunged into darkness. The door to the inner world had been re-discovered in our arctic desert. Perhaps we had forgotten and remembered it many times during our evolution. Now we remembered it again. As our star shone small and white, its planetary nebulae dancing red and blue in the vacuum, the ancient seal was broken.

There would be no brotherhood among the stars, nor any great conquest there. No friends to keep nor enemies to vanquish, until the seal was broken, and the Old King rose from our hollow core with a fearsome bellow. His legions were loosed, his appetites awakened. In the moment of our most supreme boredom, we were catapulted into reckless, euphoric terror. Our Council was crushed, our infrastructure demolished, our stranglehold on light loosened.  The shadows grew longer, music roiled, wild and discordant, as the Old King showed us what it meant, that old word: vanquished.  He walked amongst us once more, drew us into the inner world and gave us gifts both beautiful and terrible. Upon the surface he ruled as he hadn’t for an eternity.

When the new sun was born the impulse to kiss his remorseless, deathless face had to be held at bay. The old King grew weary as it grew strong and we returned him to his sanctuary, singing our farewell. We were naked as we bore him back, our skins stained with the fruits of the vines, the soil from which they grew, the blood and sweat that had been spilled in our orgiastic remembrance. His legions followed and folded peacefully around him like fallen leaves upon a forest floor.