a fly on the wall;
a fly in the honey;

a fly.

catch me, if you can,
not with vinegar
but honey;

I have a taste for honey.

I have a taste for rotting meat,
manure, and the salt-lick tang
of a horse’s sweat.

sweet meat.
sweet manure.
sweet sweat.

I am the scavenger,
the pilgrim,
the fly in the ointment.


~ January 30, 2016



Close the door.
Put out the light.
Make ready for the little death
that comes on tiptoe
like a cat or fog

and creeps across the ceiling.

The little things
are crawling on the walls
and eaten by the moon.

The little things
are eaten by the moon
with secret spoons
and secret spices

stolen from the incense altars
of the inner places.

Save us from our sleep
you conjurers of sleep

who neither sleep nor walk
among the sleepers
sleeping in their beds.

Save us from our dreams
you hidden dreamers
who hide behind your hands

and keep your distance
from our dreams and
dreamless sleep
throughout the watches

of our sleepless nights.

~ January 28, 2016


At night
the peacock screams,
the earthworm screams,

and mankind sleeps

beneath the dirt,
beneath the refuse
of a wasted day,
a useless night,

and broken promises

made in code
and secret signs
by hungry fingers
digging through
our hungry mouths,
our hungry teeth,

and wagging tongues.

“Release the Kraken!”
shrieks the Kraken.

“Release us all!”
the Kraken shrieks.

“Release us all!”
the peacocks
and the earthworms echo.

(Release us all.)



       ”Pigeons on the grass, alas.” ~Gertrude Stein

Neither before nor after
the end, will it come
like a shower of needles
and buttons.

Not now or then
will the needles unfasten,
the buttons unbutton,
the breath stop
and the doors open.

No. There is no telling,
neither by dreams nor visions,
where the madman lurks
except in caskets
opened on the Sabbath.

There is no knowing,
except in fear,
of his coming and going
and the leash and collar

he carries on his shoulder,

and the faint sounds
he makes in his throat,

too faint to be heard

except by dying pigeons
scattered on the grass.


NOTE: Originally published in RAUM, vol. 1, issue 3, Summer 2016


Time leaks from the bottle
like a genie from a lamp
or smoke from a cigarette.
Time wastes itself
on the concerns of men
dressed in business suits,
riding an escalator
into a gravel pit
at the foot of Mt. Zion.
Count me among them
who leap
from that stairway
into the arms of time
disguised as Morpheus
chewing a wad of bubble gum
and blowing bubbles
in our faces
that pop like dreams
upon the rocks below.
~January 18, 2016


”O my dove, thou art in the clefts of the rock,
the secret places of the stairs.” (Song of Solomon 2:14)

up down.
in out.
back forth.

the way of the hand.
the way of the tongue.
the way of the breath.

everything moving
to an end.

everything imploding
to its center.

the snake to its hole.
the fox to its den.
the bird to its nest.

but the sons of men have

nowhere to rest their heads.
nowhere to rest their feet,

their souls,
their secrets.

open, then, the cleft of the rock,
the place of the stairs,
the many mansions
of their father’s house

that we may go up, down;
in, out; back and forth
through time, space

and these everlasting doors.

~January 13, 2016



A child in the chimney.
A crack in the wall.
A penny in the cistern

And a beetle
scratching at the door.


falling from the silence
like leaves from the silence,
or the hopes of lovers
lost at sea,
and from each other.

They all shall fall,
these sounds,

fall upon deaf ears,
blind eyes,
and a sutchered mouth

making sounds
like a lame leg
dragging through an alley
outside your door,

tapping at your door,
with a lantern in his hand
and a summons on his forehead

and a child
upon his shoulder screaming,

“Bring out your dead!”