Cast into this,
through the fire,
the winters reckoning.
These tired strides,
pass the serpentine catch.

She sleeps in the catacombs
and copulates with the corpse
She lies to the moon and the
stars and the night
At least the dead are honest

The old warrior sits
stooped
his weathered bone
bowed
Each scar

I’ve reached the point

where screaming is useless.
And tonight
countless men and women
 will scre
from windows and mansions and roof

This room
as good
as any
to hear
the story

I am starting
like the breath
to meet
winters air.
Disappear in thoughts,

As I write this, I look around an
Of life. Everyone I know, helples
Us struggling from one point to an
Or placated. We live as though th
Fabricated stories of afterlives a

At the brink
men gather a calm.
Such placid faces in the
black boot dark
Peer the sheer drop, like family,

I am disappearing, in the shadows
against the glare of the noon day
Made visible only by you. You wit
heels and Virginia slim.
Everyday I woke like a lion and p

Her mind
is a house afire
Inside
two angry children
They are unknown

A frog made a home on my porch. H
eating bugs and spiders and I’m ha
The frog and I have a non verbal
I can only hope that the lawyers n
He is awash in entomology,