Gone are those diners

where young lovers and lonely old men

might while their idle hours

The couples gather coins to tip the waitress

and the widower stares into his coffee

Spiderweb on my driver window today

left to remind me

we are left standing still

We are no refugees

the world has just left us

Where we will diminish

in analog twilight


Only pigeons can tell

Anticlimactic summer

burst with shower

in June’s opening act

Fertile world beyond the doors

We communed with raindrops

Rhythm upon the roof top

like a steel drum

Mildewed and faded

green tarps are loosed

Reveals dusty, battered grand

Bare feet in the dirt floor

gently touched those keys

Sending stark minor chords

to echo in acoustic void

While you danced naked

in the rain

Those notes forever

captured in the timbers above

for generations of pigeons to know

A Darby afternoon

Singular in circumstance

A tale that

when I’ve gone

Only pigeons can tell


the shades fell, bringing darkness

in the night I was blind

the muting fog enshrouded

in silence I was deafened

no perfumes

no sweet, no savory

cave dweller crawling

only touch to inform

know only the earth

become one with the earth

feel her tremble at the foundations

we will only feel the crush

when these towers fall


Nightmares and fantasies

The fevered dreams of our childhood

that we should hear the siren’s wail

Underground to waste

or remain to perish

Maybe fight on in a leftover world

Two flavors in the cupboard

Constant fear

or blissful ignorance

Grown up, chose the latter

aided with poisons of choice

The giant hotplate

for a nation of frogs

Graduated from apocalyptic nightmare

to an extinction fantasy


Clowns march on

Who will play this theater now?

The stage for all reality debased

We’re left wondering how

to get there, all signs defaced

Follow the march of circus clowns

Disproven theories like confetti strewn

No longer can they mask their frowns

at questions they find jejeune

Blood and money the price of admission

The tenets of a creed unkempt

All non-believers face derision

Heretics deserving only contempt

For they see the facade is cracking

Not money, only truth is lacking

And still the clowns march on

Only clay

Plum and fuchsia blossoms

all fallen now

Dead and brown in undergrowth

Spark of light

lit the fuse

Green tides follow

ungrateful, unknowing

from whence they’ve been wrought

When two fortnights have passed

the waves recede

Their supple skin to wither

shed to the earth

Languish in the damp

food for springtime spores

Or burn upon pyres

an offering

to unnamed gods

What would we be

to shed our own with such ease

No ash, no dust, only clay