The voices behind the ringing

From the mouths of fools

and the lips of sages

The same story told

The casual observer interprets

for deaf and mute pedestrians

accommodating martinets and miscreants

The fool oblivious proceeds his folly

The sage’s thesis lies shattered

Each shard reflecting

horrified glare of incredulity

and they are dissolving

your frenetic obsessions

in powdered glass and pools of acid


Anger Interruptus

Please don’t blow that horn

Someone may be sleeping

A bitter dream of scorn

Someone there still weeping

This anguish you may break

Consequence unintended

Bitter and sad to forsake

Unfulfilled now it’s ended

The dreamer is left wanting

only to vent their spleen

Instead a shadow haunting

for wants so cruel and mean

The poison has slipped the noose

No longer theirs to drink

No more to suffer the abuse

Now left too much to think


The Ride

They’ve gone this way for years

Sowing doubt, stoking fears

Self-absorbed musings

on deaf ears

Promise makers

need their takers

Otherwise it’s competition

So keep the repetition




Miss, oh Miss…

Am I mistaken

Is this seat taken



Taking you

for a ride

You’re afraid to climb

but even worse

the very bad time

they’ll give you

for the ride

you take in a hearse


It used to be nine

The warmth has wept her last

forsaken these lands

These upper parallels

to be shunned

for sins real

or only perceived

This grey monolith

enters unchallenged

He marshals his charges

into pens and cages

Vanguard of the ice to come

and all cruelties

suffered in banishment

Happily he takes his task

Bitter and vengeful

for his demotion

Il pleut

November spawned a monster

a man once sang

I’ve seen it’s birth

from the heavens

It falls from heights

tumbles to the ground

for the Earth to swallow

It spills to gutters

and pools in place

She is sated

and only longs for sleep


It’s a tender loving medication

this shallow dedication

to preserve reputation

Uphold the honor

Reaffirm the myths

Console yourself

listening to The Smiths

Louder than bombs

your punch lines land

When the Queen is dead

your sleight of hand

will fill with dread

all across the land

Pretend this is nowhere

and no one you know

Then realize you’re somewhere

you still need to go

The unquiet mind

abhors the stillness

for it renders a kind

of severe mental illness

for those counting dust motes

inside of glass globes

Wearing long winter coats

on temporal lobes

blinking strobes

ceremonial robes

Tall in black wool coats