With the grain

I will never be like you

I said

And you smirked

“Whatever you say”, you said

As you turned away

And then brought the iron bar down

Again, and again, and again

For years.

Now I fit. Now, I look straight ahead.

I am wiser now

That’s what you tell me.

Sometimes, though

When I pass that tree

I trail my fingers over the smooth bark.

I feel the initials.


And another’s

And I catch my breath.

And I despair.

Forever 4AM

That quiet moment in the wee hours when you can’t work any more… the hound of responsibility satisfied for now or at least distracted, gnawing on the bone of exhaustion.

…and you see a Facebook post from an old friend and you go on a little excursion… and there are familiar faces and you wonder when your life became a photo album.

So you trace the timeline back and maybe your heart’s just tenderized by the hour or the fatigue but you start to feel a cavern opening somewhere south of your neck.

And you wonder when it will all fall into place. When will the story make sense in reverse? Will you ever stretch out a lifeline to that boy sitting on a dark hill in nineteen-ninety-something, shivering in the pre-dawn chill, waiting for the future to descend?

And what of this man-thing behind the desk? What will you scream at him across the abyss from a 4AM fifteen years hence, the sound whipped away like a dream where you can only mouth the words?

The world will turn and you will be made new. But here in this silent hour, you will always be lost. Now, then and always: on your knees in the dark, snapshots littering the ground, endlessly shuffling them, trying to find how they fit.

Oh my love it’s time

In that place we were long lost and newly found. In that light we shifted out of time and we stood amazed. Our eyes blue sky wide. Our fingertips outstretched. Our knees touched and in between a world was born.

I come to you now from without and before and everafter. Our story tells me and I am born again. I am the lost letter, I am the constant thread thinner than light. Stronger than stars. I will lie forever in abasement but I will not be denied.

In that time we were perfect. I sing that age to life. I conjure your name and raise my hands as herald. I am the note on your window. I am the knowing smile. I am the living witness.  I am patient.

From between dream and waking, at the edge of sight, I whisper to you. From beyond the garden gate, I invoke you. Rising from the earth where you dance: I will remind you. From the space between beats: I will remind you. In that place your train filled halls and the moon was your crown. Your touch healed the heartsick. Your countenance recalled those lost. From the mirror I will call you to yourself. You will see. You will remember. And you will bid the one you find there: awake.

The end of the beginning

And then God saw the man’s spirit, and was afraid. And he gave the man Craft, so that the man would be distracted from his calling. And he gave the man family, so that he too would know fear. And finally he gave the man pride, so that the man would never again recall his true name.


Well and here we are. You sway
with a beat I cannot quite
catch and I am horn rimmed and black socks and
tennis shoes


And I cover myself in the symbols, in the warp and
woof of a simpler space. An escape, a
hideaway in two dimensions.


Dirt, dirty, grime and rot
you are the smell and the taste, ripe and overripe and
bursting, you are the touch and the waist and the grind and the sweat, and I
I hate you because I cannot give
in to you; because I cannot sink my
toes into you; because I am