The Things That You Do

Good Morning Michael,
Who are you?
Can you tell us a little something about the things that you do?

What’s your story about?
What type of things do you write?
Are you familiar with deception as a fictive device?

Gigantic rents in the sky,
A speck of sand in your eye,
I’m like a creature that has wings and yet refuses to fly.

Well that’s nice,
But what do you know about current publishing trends?
Do you start work on a sequel as soon as one story ends?

I’m like a murder scene played backwards until nobody dies,
Gotta keep this shit tight,
Like a CD track at night,
Played in a car with engine idling that’s stopped at traffic lights.

Well you’re certainly creative, so there’s no problem there,
But you’ve still given us no reason for the
reader to care…

Oh, I am nothing to you,
But you are something to me,
For I dwell in a space too far for even Hubble to see,
And your existence is the stars that light up my night sky,
Without the stars I’d be alone and have no reason to try.

These Hills

these hills are a place

where it is always night

not the mean blackness

some knights possess

but a diffuse sort of darkness

lit by the distant pin-pricks

of exploding gas

and the moon

catching the light

from an unseen sun

and dripping it like honey

such that these hills

and this ever-night

is lit by milky amber

hues that carry the promise

of magic


oh how I long to shed
this absurd
like a dessicated corpse
swaddled in cloth
to tear free from
and scream from
the start to the end

Beyond the Wall

i see major
things dream
major things
make wagers
forget faces
like time
wastes us
case of
the way
makes us
the way
we are
the stuff
from stars
the dust
from stars
the rust
on cars
the rust
on tins
and jars
shattered like scars
shattered like dreams
broken like kings
broken like wings
on birds that fall
beyond the wall

The Righteousness of a Broken Clock

Initials carved in wet concrete, worn smooth by the passage of passing feet.

Time passes, yet those indelible figures remain; through burning sun and falling rain.

Steps pass over weary stone, ankles click and muscles groan.

I am not immune to the passing of time. Each step is mine; each second mine.

Each crack in concrete marks the time and old carved initials become a sign…

Of things we’ve lost and days enshrined.

By faded photographs, our lives unwind.

Like broken cuckoo clocks.

It Is Yours

Do you ever feel like…
You are dying inside?
Do you ever feel like…
You’ve got something to hide?
Do you ever feel like…
That for every door open,
You can still hear the sound,
Of another ten closing,
And everything’s closing in on you now,
The whole room is shrinking,
And about your mistakes is all that you’re thinking about,
And you’re mired,
In each bad decision,
The air crushed from your lungs,
But you are still living–
You’re living!
And you feel that the pressure is easing,
Push the walls back,
With this power you’re feeling,
And dreaming,
Of bursting out,
Thirsting out,
For something more:
It is yours.

It is yours.