An Evening Act of Violence

They ripped her to pieces

on the lawn of 

someone she trusted,

two who had no business

anywhere near her.

How cruel, the fate of onlookers,

safe, but helpless behind a fence,

watching without physical


Defenders from all corners rushed,

one wielding a baseball bat,

striking far more deadly a pose

than any seen from

the pitcher’s mound,

shouting a declaration 

with such conviction, 

I believed her.

A voice stopped the world

from turning, 


conveying an emotion,

so unmistakably maternal,

as they handed the small

body back 

to her worried mother.

They will tell you this is life,

that violence is a part of nature,

and so is death.

They only say it because

this did not happen to them.



Blurred, and barely 


but still a similar shape.

Eyes speaking of degrees,

bonfires held in heavy lids,

leaving powdery remains

of memories

in wake.

Ash falls from the perceived sky,

gathering on the ledges:

lips, nose, cheeks,

hollow of the throat,

until they blanket,

sheets of soft snow.

Cleanse nostalgic notion

with ravenous fire, 

odious infection of frivolity 

fought with seering pain

and burnt sacrifice.

A relief etched into the heart,

a scene of paradox,

set to a syncopated beat

diguised as Reason,

and this memento will keep

when the wild winds whisper

notions of immortality.

You Aren’t 

You say this city-state is full

of people who are twisted,

deviants of one kind 

or another,

afflicted in the mind with

some disorder.

You aren’t wrong.

You claim you are above that.

It’s true that if you crawl 

long enough

in the social underbelly of this

culture, you comprehend

how far into the maw you step,

that abyssal space between

idyllic and grotesque.

We step through, willingly,

daring that entity inside us

to come out, and play.

You claim that you are not one.

You’re normal.

But you cannot step through,

and be normal.

Don’t you see this is a respite?

Most of us are running from

loss of loved ones, or

seeking to add something 

interesting into their life.

Sometimes this place is home,

drenched with nostalgia,

sentimentality in every trinket

you wear,

and other times it is a foreign land,

interesting, but cold, detached 

from memory.

Let me weave you into my tapestry,

displayed above my mantle,

tracing the times our stories

crossed, and what it brought.

You are just as broken

as the rest of us.

Revel in the beauty of 

what you won’t say you see.

Haunted by Wakefield

Your absence does not Pierce, 

nor ache, as it did.

Raw wounds have, over time,

healed, the rough scars 

interspersed against soft tissue.

I read Hawthorne’s “Wakefield,”

and within, I found a sentence:

“It is perilous to make a chasm in human 

affections; not that they gape so long 

and wide–but so quickly close again!”

I don’t think about you, like I did,
except in quiet moments

like this one. 

I don’t wake to check

for any means of communication:

by phone, email, text message,

the message system of a game 

we played, a letter…

I don’t check to see what time

it is there; 

the timezone difference

doesn’t affect me.

You can deny that this isn’t leaving,

if you like. 

Your promise still lingers,

a pale ghost in my bedroom,

a weight pressed

on the foot of my bed,

which I kick off.

I smudge the room,

and exorcise your worthless word

from the air,

for that is all it is now: air.

You might as well be Wakefield,

that man who sought thrill,

then became thrall, twenty years,

to sickness, in his mind.

Wither away, and may your words

come back to haunt you,

instead of me.

I will heal, 

and think of you



There is an undeniable 

disturbance in the moment,

the very second

made known.

Clinging word on the tip

of intuition’s tongue,

hanging just out of reach

of those who seek it,


It’s a shadow that overtakes,

a towering, soundless giant,

that conquers any lasting joy,

and leaves hope fleeting.

I did not heed

the moment where I sought

an answer to a question that

I had not asked.

Is this real?

Individual perception in an 

abstract operator, that questions 

every waking moment

as if surreal.

Perhaps it is as

one suggested:

I am a dream,

but not the dreamer.

Rabbit to the Stone Wall

Your arrangement of stone, 

still silent,

but today the silence is calming, 

and I must speak to you.


past the stonework

you’ve set in place.

You told me that she was not

worth my trust,

something seemed off. 

She kept invading your mind,

and it bothered you how

I drowned in her words,

revering her advice as if

it were divine.

I questioned the logic in plucking

the arrow from a moral compass,

more outraged at ideology

I thought I could not conceive.

That was the first step back,

to question.

Not long ago, she removed the veil,

eyes burning, features grotesque,

twisted my loyalty to her advantage,

lied to my face, and suspected me.

I spent four days in pain, appetite

missing from my routine, thoughts

constantly thrown 

back to those moments,

the reaction, 

words laced with honey and venom.

Her refutation stuck in my craw,

‘how could you ever think I would

do this?’

I declined such challenge to accuse, 

keeping your silence

as stalwart company.

In the end, the truth was used

only to weigh against,

but I knew exactly 

where I stood,

line drawn between us.