Knee-deep into study of an usurping 

toad uncle, such a villain this,

and there, from the corner of my mirror

stands she.

She whispers fierce curses, eaten up by

anger and a loathsome sense

of entitled bitterness,

wishes only for retribution 

of the dead.

A keen woman in the desert

placed a stake through her story’s

villain, not even a lead role in that play,

 and yet you murmur an aside.

Is it possible the curse lain on you,

the sickness of the rich your

playwright stitched in conversation

might render your disposition 

of your order or principality,

and not the fairer race, that

princes in their greatest desire

to foil an evil plot would be only 

left in words and not in acts?

Phantom, tell me you are dead.

No living, breathing queen would

sound so helplessly for kin. 

A Decision to be Made

Hulking and heavy, a boulder
hoisted high above a pit,

looming, whispers and

baited breath from below

to chance a glimpse

the moment that it drops.

These few seconds of suspense,

a tiresome feat to behold, do little 

to help the one trying to be anchor, 

pulling on the ropes in every desperate 

attempt to keep the rock above.

It’s seen in the dust that is stirred up,

the unsteady steps that keep trying

to find a more helpful foothold,

the shoes worn down til the soles

have no traction, and the silent

resolve in a grip of a person

whose shaking arms have lasted this long

in a struggle between what 

is possible and probable, but

the boulder seeks to take captor

with it, allow the chasm to swallow

whole the one who grasps, white-knuckled.

Is it better to let go of the heavy stone 

and move on, in disappointment,

 than lose footing and fall in after?

Rants of the Disillusioned

He loves himself.

He pronounces it,

a squalling peacock roosting high

in his own tree.

Could loving anyone more be anything than

blasphemy of his own self-worship?

He directs his words to nobody,

speaking out loud to the air as if it listens–as if

the air would slow to listen to him.

For all of your complaints, self loving man,

and the fruitless pursuit of those

who wouldn’t give you the time of day,

perhaps it would be best

to leave it to yourself.


​Time to understand this notion,

this temporary madness instilled within my own,

still a whisper, barely evident in the eve of this

shadow who is listening and taking into account.

There is nothing in this space, but the small footfalls,

unholy thoughts no longer allowed to enter,

come to collect some buried mystery
or another.

Enter and leave at your leisure,

but disrupt and take only what you may account for;

many varied verse will take and entrance

to let the dreams enjoy brief respite

for the realist tomorrow they face,

and fall not for the many faces that it shows,

it is only one who masquerades as two or three,

but is only one.


Defender of a yard unkempt,

neglect and abandon, your companions,

and yet you stay, you loyal

huge dog, half polar bear,

half lion, wholly underappreciated.

It was our folly for taking you from

this place, as you put down all

of your weight, your force, certain

not to be moved away.

Protector of this forsaken place,

we kidnapped you with 

good intent. Believe it or not,

we do these things out of love,

and we herd you into a truck,

taking you from a bed of old towels,

wet newspapers, and some

tufts of fur you’ve torn from your tail

in distress.

We move forward now, but 

understand your crying, it is part of the process.

You are scared

of what will happen, if they return

and you are not there 

to guard them.

Worry not.

Dog, you are powerful,

gentle to be sure, but indomitable 

in will. There is nothing

you could be forced to do

if you did not want to.

Ramblings of Insomnia

I’ve kept pace with a 

neon-blue clock that states

without compassion to my disorder

resounding ticking in my mind,

and perhaps it is solely to annoy

him that I do waste his precious 

time on idle things that 

matter only to me.

If within me rebels even 

the ticking of a clock,

matching the pace of me 

mid-fight with my demons,

perhaps it partly is

simply an illusion,

a distraction from ourselves, 

the struggles of our neighbors,

deluding of things that take

too much or aren’t worth it,

and what if we are truly 

never wasting any time?

Begin again 

and start the day anew.


I’m impartial to lukewarm,

and annoyingly cautious, so

I understand that you would test

to try and gauge how I react,

but then I wondered if it was a game,

and wanted desperately to trust.

So, when we climbed the cliff’s tall face,

standing at the edge, I stole a glance,

and envied your decided jumping.

I rebalanced, tried again, but could not


Stuck on the edge of this earth, caught,

wishing just to be reckless enough to

plummet for my own reasons,

but I keep looking for you,

and I can’t let go.

Some Strange Forest

Talk to me.
I’ve been so lonely,
and I grow tired of
the circular shapes
that my thoughts tend
to tread.

I want nothing better
than to listen to you speak.
You are a stranger,
and enemy to my city,
but your love of nature
excites me, and reminds me
of a younger self.

I didn’t expect you,
but when you started speaking
it was nice. Long before my
two-hundred year slumber,
I’d have many friends like you.

Home has treasure,
and we part ways
to hopefully become friends,
I think?

Song of the Sparrow

Oh, solitude come to me now.
Sing of intimations,
allow my thoughts to free,
and counsel me through this unrest.

In these trees, I cannot sit–my
place is taken by a shadow.
I am forced to take my knee,
and humbly I resign to fate.

Patience is my longwinded ally,
for it is what
I feed my anger. I bide my time
and bite my tongue, to wait just a
little longer.

I wonder of the parallels we take,
the two roads we walk down,
and though we’ve never even met,
I think about you fondly.


Could we take a moment to consider O’Connor,

maybe Welty, or Faulkner too? Where regional

works are absorbed into families, and deformity

is linked to the spirit.

Because that is my own dilemma.

Can I have a club foot, or a disfigured

face, a hand that never lets go?

What would they have said about

my spirit? What would the lesson be?

There is a theme among parable-like stories,

short and long, novels and poems,

and words that sound like home,

every page I turn.

Perhaps I am already grotesque,

and that’s why I relate

so well.

Although, I’ve often felt closer to Chopin’s

characters. To take my clothes off near the beach,

run into the the welcoming waves,

and become so lost in my own awakening

that I drown.