ideology of september 11, 2001

compassion is a stone age
conception now.
we shove it underground,
shove it underground
or toss it into the sky
like a handful of
dead dust and then wipe
our hands on our pantlegs
ridding ourselves of the
unfamiliar feeling and
the silence between us is
unspeakable in its
absolute precision. our very
synapses shriek when bridged.
they used to sing, they used
to sing back in a time when
handshakes were money and
contact wasn’t a dirty word.
our ideology fell down on
our heads and we became
emotional amnesiacs, with
smug cheshire cat grins, gaining
knowledge, education, power, greed,
becoming eternally foolish
in our infinite wisdom, and
we were lost, we were lost when
the twin monoliths fell, we became
children once again afraid of
the dark before we created
fire to light our way.



Searing heat burns
We are blended
(hands your hands my skin flaming)
Silvered flesh flowing
Your sweat
(sweat passion please touch me please)
Drips down my
Body, turning
Into flowing gold
On the
Burnished copper
Of my skin
As you are being
(steel glowing dripping pleasure pain)
In my fires
My love
(forge red gold burning hot rhythm)
And you, branding me
With your
Molten liquid
Metal life
And we fuse into
White-hot passion
(searing me searing i’m dying no living, living)
And then the
Cooling into
Smooth grayness
As the fires
Die down,
(hold me hold me don’t let go)
And we are left
As embers,
Melting in the
Transluscent dark.



The most beautiful tree in the world
is right outside my front door.
She has dropped all her beauty
to the floor of the world,
and stands now in half-naked repose.
She is unaware of her splendor
as she coats our lives with her color,
as the passers-by turn and look
to gaze at her for a moment
and she is lovely, lovely to them.
All she feels now is the way
her barren form reaches to the sky,
stripped of her life and charm.
The wind, howling through the spaces
drives at her until she melts,
and morphs into the same color as
the house that she guards,
as the sun,
as the earth around her,
as her joy and pain,
and her despair.
She has lost herself, in this becoming.
Perhaps she realizes, deep within
her roots, where the soul of her lies,
that she will be reborn after the cold,
and life will lend her life again.
But for now, all she is aware of
is her beauty, fallen away from her,
and the way her barren form
is reaching endlessly to the sky.


Throwing Stones at Sunset

I sit on the beach and watch the sun sink.
I sit on the beach and toss stones,
Bits of fused glass,
Everything arcs and lands on the wet sand,
Until the sea creeps up and reclaims it all.
I pick a shell, and trace my fingertip
Along its scalloped edge.

My nail polish is chipping.
I notice the way the dark burgundy color
Contrasts with the pearl white of the shell,
And I wonder if you’ve ever seen this color,
This exact color,

I always wonder what the world looks like through your eyes.

We weren’t even supposed to meet.
You thought I was someone else.
Do you remember that?
I do.

The first time you opened up to me,
It was to tell me that you had sat
On the hood of your car,
During dusk,
Of course somewhere
In the middle of nowhere.
And you watched a sunset,
And briefly,
Wished I was there with you.
That was the first time you thought of me.

I think about you all the time, you know.

I am always searching for ways to
See the world as you do.
Searching for ways to bottle passion.

Sometimes I wonder,
If you have found the secret to fooling everyone
Into not realizing
Exactly what they encounter
Whenever you are around.

I toss the shell down, and pick up a rock.
I flip it back and forth in my hands,
Watching the waves go in and out,
And I flip the stone.
I can’t help it.
It’s a nervous habit of mine.

Your entire life is a nervous habit.
You can’t stand still.
Think still.
Act still.
Walk still.

I sink my hands deep into the sand,
To see what I can find.
I wonder if your restless ways are just a cover
To hide the fact you’re so scared.
Of failure, perhaps.
Or maybe it’s something as simple as worrying
That one day,
Your friends will realize that you are simply human
And not the demi-god so many think you are.
Your friends always were your world.

I select a stick from the washed-up debris,
The perfect writing implement.
If I could, I would carve a poem of epic proportions
Here, on the sand.
A monument to you,
And your larger-than-life, wild brilliant glow.
I would swear that when you speak,
Two-plus-two equals five,
Merely because you will it to be so.

My muse, amused.

So tragicomic.
Defiant in the face of melodramatic overkill.
My shooting star.
You do it because you can.
You know you can.

Sometimes I wonder what might have been.

But I toss a flat stone,
Send it skipping into the shallow waters
Of the receding sea.
I wish you were here with me.
If you were, I’m sure you would have found the best of everything,
The buried treasures that somehow seemed to hide from
My searching fingertips.
Luck seems to follow you about
Like an unwanted shadow.
I wish you were here with me.

I always wish you were here with me.

I drag the stick across the sand and draw a heart.
I wonder where I fit into the nature of yours.
You always make me wonder.
I drop the stick.
The sunset has faded.
In my contemplation of my inner thoughts,
I’ve forgotten to watch the colors bleed and fuse together.
I’m sure you might have scolded me for that, had you been here.
But you’re not.

I drop the shell, and walk away.


The rest of these are fragments of poems that I've started and not finished, but I thought I'd thumbtack them here anyway.

I crept up on a faerie once,
And caught her in a jar
I bent my eye and studied her,
A stranger from afar

Precious was the catch I made,
Exquisite, she, and rare,
A charming mix of life and light
Of mind and passions fair

Hair as red as copper’s blood
And eyes Atlantis green,
I wondered so to see her there
A tiny faerie queen

An ancient phoenix blazing bright
Could not have been as fair
To me as the wild-lived sprite
Entrusted to my care


Her heart is a Rosetta Stone
All the words of the world
move through her mind
her endless mind


So much in the bones of your fingers,
The curve of your wrists.