Open letter of gratitude

Although I haven't responded directly to all the warm comments I've received over the past month, I'd like to personally thank anyone who has miraculously found this blog. Those of you who have taken the time to comment or follow the blog are especially appreciated.


Here you are in your sexless,
electric dreamscape,
aching for the rhythm
of the mother spirit;

Here you are in your sonic citadel,
bypassing the eardrum
and jamming your frequency;

Here you are in the kiss of Judas,
selling out your faith
for your pieces of silver;

Here you are within your wire tower of Babylon;
Where are you?


Preacher man's sun sets just like mine
when we both glide down the Mississippi
he's a black obelisk, some monolithic terror
clutching a thin prayer book between
fingers wet with blood

Preacher man's grass is green like mine
when we both run the yard and daydream
he's a mad liturgist, some monotheist mirror
consumed in flames like phoenixes
the rebirth of first sin

Preacher man's bed is just like mine
when we both part sheets to rest our souls
he's a white anarchist, his glass of water clearer
filtered from tap so that he may
escape the angel of death

Preacher man's grave is just like mine
when we both are caught by memory
he's a dead archivist, the price of mythic error
buried in his very best so he
can be forgotten


Jerusalem is collapsing
am I just your phantom?

Caw with me
and we can be
together crows
or cowards

The Venetian

The staggering wind of the winter is blowing and
he stands in the window, forgets where he's going so
he paces and traces curved lines with his fingers as
questions like strangers haunt him and linger

The Venetian is pale and his eyes are still sinking, the
woman he bedded is smoking and drinking and
the sermon, it echoes from deep in the steeple but
his heart is crippled by good and evil

He places his glasses inside his old raincoat to
remind him to look in the street for his angel but
as he goes stumbling throughout the black market he
trembles beneath the weight of his darkness

The Venetian is pale and his eyes are still sinking, he
mentions to patrons that he has quit drinking but
he finds himself speaking words from the steeple for
his heart is aching for good and evil

The schedule of trains, it is scrawled on his wrist so
that he remembers where he is missed and
the train screams like wind that is fervent and blowing, he
steps out of his window as it starts snowing

The Venetian is pale and his eyes have stopped sinking, the
conductor is screaming, the train is still bleeding but
the words of the sermon are heard in the steeple for
his heart is empty of good and evil

This stable

I sought your sly replacement
holding form to flesh
when both of us were ruined
the rain was still so fresh

She held me close for mischief
stealing with my hands
but I refused to stop her
or issue reprimands

Had you been with me darling
who knows what I'd say
The price for your remainder
was far too high to pay

The house we built together
crumbles at my feet
Your porcelain mask is cracking
from years of our deceit

Is she broken?

Do you see her
standing there
in the empty

Do you hear her
crying out
for her lover's

Do you know her,
do you care?
Will you walk

I heard you hadn't mentioned it

Light filters through your cage
the bars of which are window panes
The static of your television
is drowning mother's mind

Five thousand city boys
dream of taking you to town
Blaming you for their love
roses in their hands

Sit, drink, look at yourself,
hidden from the razor blade
You take your iron kerchief
and scrape away the dust

Say there, dandelion
I heard you called for me?

Hey there, little angel
I hope you're having fun.

The bridge collapsed
beneath your father
Swallowed by the darkness
of a cold New Jersey night

Settle in your carpet nightmares
lifting books to shield your eyes
As images of lovers roll
across your bedroom floor

But have you learned to look
beyond your own reflection?

Can you help but listen
to someone else's voice?

Falling in through wiretaps


You gave that formless hatred
the face of a mother

You shaped the consciousness
of ten thousand robots

You spoke in tongues of intrigue
to disciples

Can you live with


It all came together suddenly.

Red blouse, silver necklace, motorcycle.
Sunday the 31st, sometime after noon.
You laughed like the time I bought you flowers.
Everything in the room was covered with your perfume.

Car door, radio, your missing Bible.
Sunday the 31st, sometime after five.
There is no time left for words or games.
You left his condoms laying out.

The howl of winter.
Sunday the 31st, sometime after dark.
I depart from Eden one last time.
Yeah, I hope you're doing well.


I love you&
want you&
know you can't be there

I see you&
feel you&
touch your cold hands

I'm sad&
I'm lonely&
I can't believe it

You're leaving,