This Garden is empty

Tree of Knowledge blighted

Rough bark on thick trunk projects

the strength that once was

and hides the rot beneath

Withered roots no longer drink

from Good Earth and water pure

They tap a poison pool

and bear tainted fruits

Seduced by charlatans presenting

false choices as truth

Safety or Liberty

convenience or death

The new canons to be obeyed

Ignoring truths

that life is cruel

and happiness accidental



My friend Fritz, Opus 4

When last met with my friend Fritz it was a somber occasion.  I recall thinking that it would be some time before I might see him again.  I do not know what instinct had told me this.  Perhaps it was only some dark intuition, the sort often associated with his comings and goings. As it happens this was incorrect. I was awakened in the dark of pre-dawn by that familiar voice.



Your sleep is uneasy tonight.

Is it?

You prefer to listen to your music rendered on vinyl. Why is it that you do not prefer to write on paper?

Fritz and I have established a familiarity between us.  His oblique puzzles, though I may struggle to answer, do make sense to me.

I have not considered this Fritz. I actually do prefer to write upon paper.

I see. Is that because you are unable to communicate on vinyl?

HA! He left me an opening!

That is but one of many reasons Fritz.

You wish to speak of this no more?

I wish to speak of it no more today.

Very well.

He then remained silent for some time, though I knew our conversation was far from finished. We both enjoy the silence that we may better hear our inner voices. This is the space where Fritz and I commune.

This tropic choler of your nights do not suit my central European constitution Thomas.

I should have thought you would have grown used to it by now.

Perhaps I shall in time.  You carry a sadness Thomas. Something new, not your ordinary melancholy.

Indeed I do Fritz. It was not my wish to trouble you with it.

Na, was gibt’s?

Girl trouble.

He laughed.

At your age? Ach… it is that curse of masculinity. We are forever in some part that ever eager adolescent.

True enough, but this is not like that.

For an instant Fritz appeared genuinely surprised. That marks a rare occasion. He said nothing more, merely entreating me with his glowing, dark eyes to go on.

I have grown numb Fritz. I am the victim of an innocent, girlish infatuation. A child’s hero worship. This is the type of trusting love that should bring joy to the heart, if one is human. I am able to smile and play the part, yet I only feel fear and dread.

Dread of what Thomas?

He knew the answer, or would not have asked.

It is the dread of receiving this trust, knowing that ultimately I can only disappoint.

As is the burden of Man to receive God’s love. I wrestled with this all my mortal life Thomas.

Indeed you did. And what say you now Fritz?

You were a stranger to yourself for most of your life Thomas. What say you now?

He had me. The bastard had me! He would leave, with that question weighing in the air. I have been awake since.


No tears

Having only some

understanding of your language

there is no clarity

Still don’t trust the message

Masks do not cover

there is no truth in your eyes

Can’t see your lips moving

yet we still know you lie

In some distant future

puzzling over skeletal remains

they won’t tell you from other

lower forms of life

No tears shed for your extinction


The horse was a peaceful creature

living free upon the plains

Until once they were subjected

to the bridle and the reins

When men had found them useful

to a purpose more malign

They were made unwitting players

to some sinister design

From Pizarro at Cajamarca

and many more since then

The horse employed as weapon

to enslave all lesser men

What could have been for many

instead advantaged only few

Living things or flying machines

for the evil that men do

They shoot horses, don’t they?

Yes, usually in the head,

but would that they should all grow thumbs

and they shoot man instead



These days are wrong

The calendar progresses

as the sun grows long

There remains the sense

that these days are wrong

White and fuchsia blossoms

burst forth into light

The lawn grows apace

yet something’s not right

The sun has been sparing

cloud and rain more the rule

Invisible winter that reaches

like some dreaded ghoul

This grey pallor that creeps

between each ray of light

sucks the life from our waking

by some phantom fright

Using statistical models

these tyrants masquerade

as some kind of saviors

to support their charade

We can see through you

there is no mistake

the more that we give you

the more you will take

We don’t fear this virus

and this much is true

Only one menace we face

and clearly it’s you



The clean white sands of distant beach

A coveted shoreline

bathed in optimism

The hope that anything could be better

Or the sterile blandness

that only institutional grade paint can capture

Antiseptic perfume masks

the urine soaked safety

of supervised narcotic therapy

Poisons more palatable to state sanction

No more white sands await

No stadium could contain your madness

Asylum like an ocean

and no water to drink