The Night

Canine claws click-clacking upon the deadened concrete,  rocket around bush and bramble, resonate off earth and building, filling ominous silence with absolute.

Wind wisps withholding eternal force, surrounding every form standing resolute against earthen ground near man-made farce, mankind’s imagined facade.

Dark, the intrepid explorer, wisened and weathered beyond dispute, awakens from his comatose dream to envelop the world betwixt his humors.

Critters, one and all, nocturnal in action, primal in nature, accumulate and grow to amass a force to be reckoned with. Scurrying across landscape in mad-hatter daze, shushing and hushing until the sound cascades like waves.

The night exists full of life, insurmountable potential unimaginable by Einstein or Galileo or even Davinci or Napoleon. Yet, here I stand, encased by forces pressing in on all sides, surrounded by inevitability, suffocated with awareness, and all I feel is empty. The night holds no weight anymore. Without you by my side, the night has lost all power. The day merely heats my corpse and the night serves as cheap coolant. Nothing reaches my core without your hand in mine, without your eyes on mine, without you…I am nothing. I feel no breath of wind nor chill of dark. I feel hollow. Until the moment you and I again are one, I am not but a shell tip-toeing across this barren land, tripping over pebbles and roots, maintaining the motions necessary for societal existence, but caring naught. You are my life. Without you, the night holds no meaning.

The night overflows with reverence… but I hear naught.


Without You

My soul feels chained to Hell itself, feeling the tongues of flames licking its back teasing it with the promise of things to come if it loses you. Encased in cold metal, constricted by strands of responsibility, every limb forced painfully to the scorched ground while hope, faith, and my love for you suspend me above the Devil’s pit.

My heart screams out in remorseful agony ripping its own flesh with mere broken nails agonizingly begging for more to keep its mind from you until the next time it has you near. Tears of blood cascade in downward spirals evaporating above the barbecue spit only adding flavor to the appetizers below. Satan has his eyes on a larger morsel.

Love is a curious thing. Everyone desires true love, whilst few ever even taste the preemptive teaser before it is served. Even Hell’s demons salivate and growl for the slippery fiend, unable to discover its lair themselves they must tempt and slay mortals who have. Just for a taste. One seductive lick of love’s gentle touch.

For love, I lie above these fires of Hell gleefully chuckling as the demons dance below me, their mouths gaping as turkeys beneath the rain, begging to drown in my taste, the taste love gave unto me. Alas, each drop pumped from my organs dissipates within the heated atmosphere and flees back to you, my lover.

They shall never taste a sip.

My Electrician

Sensations over come me. Invisible particles of fiery sparks crackle against my innocent flesh leaving charred markers of their presence there. Electricity runs down my spine, enlightening each nerve to the start of time, opening every tendril’s mind to the arrival of life.

An electrician stands just near by, gazing calmly upon my rhyme, upon the words my body speaks when ears are deaf and lips do not speak. She traces my shape under trembling fingertips and breathes life unto my tender flesh through pinkened lips. Nothing escapes her quickened eye, ravishing my body in its hungry design. She whispers how beautifully all these circuits run, like clock work she mutters, emitting another shocking burst. My body jerks. ‘Live’ she groans with another static touch. ‘Love’ she cries adding more girth. At last I meet her timid eye, my lips parting as breath escapes too quickly to lie. Such beauty resting in generous plan, hiding where none would look.

But I looked. I look

Wrapping all my conducting coils around her pulsating heart, I constrict myself around all of her, knotting my very being together to never leave her. Our fragile exteriors meet at once, electrical charges threatening to combust. Such sensations over come me, drowning out my thoughts in their bright symphony. My mind swims, my heart pounds, my skin tingles, and my spirit takes off. My eyes grow dead around their edges till all I see is her.

All I want to see is her. My electrician.

Without her my heart shall not beat, the much needed charge driving my organs to pulse and my blood to flow would cease. Without my electrician my circuits would fry, my fuse would blow, my capacity would cease to grow. Every machine needs an electrician. Every electrician needs a machine that only they see as more, more than a societal machine moving in circles as it’s told.

Not all of us are machines. Some are electricians.

You Save Me

My soul heaves in disastrous tumoil yearning to vomit whatever putrid foe wreathes within. Nausea overtakes my inner being, wrapping its thick coils around my neck whilst thrusting slippery talons deep inside my gut. Bruised and beaten I dangle from its meaty tentacles gasping your name. The monstrous fiend holds half of my being, swaying in the suffocating breeze as if to say, “Hello, I’m just right here. I used to be just there, with you, it’s true. Come and get me so you can be free” before flying away as a kite in the sky.

My heart clenches in despair, remorse shredding tendrils of flesh from its soft hide. “Welcome to the party” whispers my soul in disarray. My heart glances all around as a nervous child in a crowded room, looking for an escape, searching for hope, wishing for you. My heart beats faster, thudding louder. The whole world can hear this betrayal from within. The world begins tap dancing atop my heart, mistaking it for another rythmically pounding dance floor. My heart lies there, drooping ever lower, moaning your name. It watches through half-lidded eyes as the demon grasps a piece of it beneath each claw.

The ghoul whisps around my room, gathering up each item and dropping it to the floor. “You won’t need these anymore” it sneers and growls as another insignificant thing hits the floor once more. I lie awake at night watching this fiend trapse about my tomb until I talk to you. Your voice awakens spirits within my heart and soul, eradicating demons, shouting for them to go. Your smile brightens everywhere it shines, erasing shadows on a dime. Your eyes see deeper, deeper into me, revealing strength believed just an entity.

You save me.

This world grows darker and darker still. People lost hope decades past, simply walking to and fro as zombies will, enjoying nothing for nothing shall last. Faith is a mere commodity, something people wish to see. Ah, but you released me. I no longer feel the threatening grasp of society. I am me.

You save me.


Consistently your eyes graze the page, haulting upon each loving phrase. Your heart begins to skip a beat, a small one here, a tiny one there, until soon it beats irregularly as if languidly skipping atop letter heads, jumping from word to word spieled out upon papered faces.


A topic of some relevance, tempting and worrisome. Every heart and brain attempt to decipher it, repeatedly creating nonsensical things useless to any kind of mind. Yet still, your eyes remain glued to it. Your heart never ceases the chase of it. Your mind refuses to quit chewing it.


The word itself exudes an aura of descriptive nomenclature seemingly too advanced for any modern mind or experienced soul. Simply seeing the word results in immediate bodily reaction. The heart tightens, skips, pounds harder, thuds louder, seizes up as a snail caught within a salt shaker. The mind races, quickly growing hot from friction. The soul pulls against its bodily chains, demanding its freedom upon the whimsical thought.


Love is what you wish to read about. Love is what you wish to feel, to know. Love is what you wish life was, every day awaking inside the confines of Love’s tender arms, feeling Love’s soft lips upon your cheek before Love leaves for work each morning.


Love is what you wish you were.

Live Oaks

Twin live oaks emerge from molten magma origins, thrusting forth from spraying dirt and crackling earth. Lively leaves shoot out, rustling and bustling against one another in a rhythmic sprout. Destiny and fate, two dream-like entities of the future, hold no place within these burly forms’ mind or brain.

Spiraling heavenward, eyes taut, stern and caught, both turn at last to see the other. Roots locked beneath the earth, secured in place by centuries of dirt. Neither can move, neither can run, neither even considers the possibility of one.

Leaves still in extreme anticipation, fighting the wind’s playful admiration. Not a bird whistles a mocking bird tune nor beat a hummingbird’s beat, yet there plays a melodic tune and upon careful consideration, beats a strong, fast, bass-like beat as the two oaks stare upon the other.

Are they awaiting the precise moment to strike? Are they holding some form of silent reverie?

Then, as if on cue, the two oaks move once more. Their trunks grow closer, their limbs grasp each other, entertwining the tips so delicately, before the final ode de short where the trunks spiral together as well, their lips forever pressed and eyes forever met.

Sex holds no weight in trees, their gender fantastically irrelevant, but as your lips muttered and whispered whilst your mind read, you imagined a traditional couple embraced beneath a starry sky, or perhaps a sunny summer’s day, even a snow blanketed prairie. Despite the scenary, despite the back story, you imagined a man and woman in place of trees.

But these were both men.

Two men embraced that midsummer’s day beneath a cloudy sky reflecting the sun’s heated light. Two men met for the very first time and never left the other’s side. With this new knowledge at hand, your mind now questions everything read. Their sexes makes nothing differ, the story remains the same, the love still tried and true, yet still your societal groomed and pampered mind believes they differ.

They loved more deeply, more truly in that one moment, than you, perhaps, ever have.

And they were both men.

Painted Lands

Blank canvas standing tall, beckoning strangers to come and call. Stark contrast betwixt surface and wall, resolute against society’s fall. Steady and calm, it stands tall, yearning for just one drop to fall.


Color stains its once pure complexion. Paint runs down in avid undulation, testing the terrain in mild consideration. A new stark reality is created. Within this parallel universe there exists just one thing, art. Creativity reigns supreme ruler of the painted lands.

Anything, truly anything I say, bursts with possibility. Endless opportunities only create more opportunities, more possibilities, more and more and more until there lies nothing but open space. Ceaseless fields growing the sweetest grass, the most deliciously aromatic flora, and the most robust of all the fauna.

Within this world of painted lands, abstract skies and rueful roses, there always rests a simple girl with painted hands, abstract ideas, and rueful woes. She always muses under a shawl of daisies, kneeling atop a mat of lilies, holding betwixt thumb and finger a dandelion. Her eyes are always downcast and glistening, consistently lost within her own mind, stumbling through memories and thoughts, her hand holding a teddy of regret.


Bright yellows and blues wash over this fantasy land, adding new depth and deceit over the original complexity. Artists often misjudge their work, becoming their worst critic and eventually their worst enemy.

The lands have changed oh so serenely, the skies are brighter, the clouds fuller, the grass greener, and the girl serener. The flowers bend and sway in the imaginary breeze, the trees dance and rustle just like any other old tree, and the girl appears so happy in her field of misery, so happy it must be what she wishes us to see. But still I wonder:

What lies beneath the surface of sincerity? And even deeper beneath complexity? Beneath simplicity? Even then, once nose to nose with that stark white canvas, what lies beneath that? Beneath the very basic of basic? Beneath our very cores. What lies beneath my core?


Imagination running wild, the scent of you inside that shower driving me crazy, dreaming about walking in, dominate and wild, stripping as I do, climbing in with you. Press you back against the moistened wall, kiss you full and hard, kiss you like you’re mine. Take you. Take you till you know nothing else.

But questions plague my mind. Do you wish to be alone? I hear the music serenading the air, and I wonder, do you wish a moment alone? What would you do if I crept in, high on tip toes, to wrap my arms around you, both of us wet and hot, the steam swirling around our braced bodies, the water raining down like a new day. What would you do? What would you say? What would you think?

I wonder often of what you think. All the things you do not say. I fear emotional distress, torment of such a higher level, agony beyond repair. I fear this pain because I know only you could destroy me. Take years for my heart to manifest again.

Do I really need a heart?

I feel so much with you. Just a simple touch, a casual glance, and I am wanton for you. My heart becomes the aria of some magnificent performance with you. My arms turn to wings and my feet cease contact with earth.

All the pain in the world is worth one moment with you. I want you always. In all ways.


Hell’s Well

Tunneled beneath living surface, acres beneath the gentle breeze, accustomed to damp and dark associated with such steepness. Quiet sloshing, splashing upon restless feet create unique music filling the deafening silence. Small specks of reflected light beckon and taunt upon the water’s surface, winking up at deadened eyes defiantly. The cool temperature of the malicious liquid tickles toes and licks soles teasingly. Hands grapple and grasp blindly for support, anything real and warm to forfeit this awful sport. Roughened walls, grainy and tough in texture, claw back in anger at being awakened from their rock slumber. Redness wells up atop the surface of abandoned hands, welps and gashes ensue with more vigorous reaches, pure desperation to escape into a world of light, warmth, air, and life.  Tears escape from barracaded vessals, leaking from tightened dams, overflowing every cavernous prison in existence as the pressure, the pain, the denial grows too strong. Hair disshelveled, matted, and ruined, insects clinging to the dirt clad strands, climbing each one as a ladder of sorts, reaching the tangled heap of curls above a sunken skull.

“Why me?!”

Shouts fill the void, shouts ricochete from enclave to enclave, from border to barrier. Shouts awaken animals dwelling deep within the rock, curled under their wings of death and talons of fury, resting for their time to slice into warm flesh and blood. Shouts echoing to and fro birth a new malicious sound, a cry from another world, a last breath noise sending chills down even the Devil’s spine. Animals encroach, Hell’s demons drawing nearer, their fangs glisten and drip in anticipation of a new wonderous savory temptation. Their eyes glint and gleam, reflecting the light shining back from the pool, teasing in more ways than one, recognizing the hope just above, just beyond hand or foot, and harnessing that as a weapon, mocking in those last heartfelt moments.

Surrounded by damp and dark, moonstruck gazing above, fervently wishing to be up there, even just a moment with fresh air. Animals snarling, growling near, soon they shall clean bones bare.

WAIT! There! Just a flash of wing, a hint of hope, a tip of the chin, and a wink of the eye. What thing would come at a time like this? Just leave this hair to the bugs, this flesh to the demons, and this soul to the Devil. Let me lie in this quarry until I am not more than dust, a silly reminder of all that could have been. Save your own tortured soul and let mine rot. But no, still the phantom draws nearer, and nearer, and nearer, almost as if floating down upon the moon’s rays, drifting down upon trasnparent cord, all the while brown orbs lock worn and tattered feet into the ground.

A hand, outstretched, solid and firm, reaching for bloodied tips against stained rock. Water sloshes louder as demons tip toe further in, waiting to pounce if I should take that hand. Still the hand awaits my ultimate choice, stay and rot in filth and bile, or rise above upon an Angel’s hand.

My hand never touched that Angel’s palm, so soft and gentle as a baby’s smile. But my heart pounced clean from my chest, nestled deep within her soul. Wings sprouted forth from my tender back, emitting loud shrieks of agony with joyful cries of glee. She taught me to fly, taught me to survive, she rescued me from those demons in Hell’s Well.

She rescued me from myself.