Like a rotten orange hiding in your refrigerator

A stranger form born midst the veil of dusk’s brume
you would never know
you could never know
its undying hunger,
aching, relentless…

It creeps in the unseen shadows
hunting, always hunting,
like a rotten orange hiding in your refrigerator
waiting, always waiting…

You sense it, you think,
for just a moment,
then it passes by,
subtly laughing,
this thing called love…

“Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither.”
– William Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part 3 ,5. 6

Call the Carpenter

Forever a Carpenter ‘neath the lowing sky,
in my mind’s eye, you can see yet not be seen;
seems it’s not yet the sleeping scene…


In search of lost time, a Black Plague carrier costs one thin dime,
but just this once, mass-murder’s not really a crime;
dark skies closing in on the devil’s clever sin,
incarcerated martyrdom, don’t play dumb with me,
hand on my heart I salute the Brute with pride;
all the pansies and chrysanthemums hide
with dinosaurs and dime-store whores,
quartz crystal candlesticks sweep slick sickly fizzlesticks;
so, please play hide-and-seek with me for all eternity,
hold me, hug me, never tell me the truth;
like sand falling from my fingers, moist-lipped kisses linger,
a symphony of sympathies full of inconsistencies;
call the Carpenter a transcendental mental case, just in case…


“No,” said Godfrey, with a keen decisiveness of tone, in contrast with his usually careless and unemphatic speech—”there’s debts we can’t pay like money debts, by paying extra for the years that have slipped by. While I’ve been putting off and putting off, the trees have been growing—it’s too late now. Marner was in the right in what he said about a man’s turning away a blessing from his door: it falls to somebody else.” – George Eliot, Silas Marner

I don’t know

I don’t know
who blows the wind or spins the earth,
or tickles a baby till it makes the cutest cackling laugh;

I don’t know
who put wings on an eagle or flippers on a whale or horns on a bull or breasts on a woman;

I don’t know
who made the stars shine so amazingly in the night sky,
or who gave such wondrous gifts to artists and authors and architects and actors and Bach and Beethoven and Brahms and the Beatles and Beyoncé,
or who made the hearts of so many so conniving and callous and cold and cruel;

I don’t know
who fills the summer with salty sea-breeze air, kids splashing in the pool, young lovers in sensuous embrace,
or who fills the summer with bomb blasts, AK47s, IEDs, and the shrieks and cries of fathers or mothers who’ve just seen their daughter’s or son’s face blown into a thousand bloody bits of flesh and brain and tongue and skin and teeth and skull and eyes;

I don’t know
who wrote all the cryptic secrets in a book no one can really understand,
or who decides who should be a billionaire and who should starve in Darfur,
or who should be a Caesar and who should be gassed to death at Auschwitz;

I don’t know
if God is the Wizard of Oz fumbling around behind a big red curtain,
or Charles Manson making his Helter Skelter followers
and kill
and kill
and kill
in His Holy Name,
or the Godfather blessing those who kiss His ass and putting a bloody horse’s head next to some poor sleeping schmuck whose only sin was not showing the Big Man all due respect;

I don’t know,
I just don’t know…


“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool..” – William Shakespeare, As You Like It

I look toward the wondrous night sky

I look toward the wondrous night sky
and imagine what lies beyond.
Perhaps I’m not as far away as they say
maybe there’s no “there” there, after all.
Something outside hides the way,
prevents me from hearing the call…

I look toward the wondrous night sky
and imagine what lies beyond.
Hope is a baby crying for candy
while suckling on mother’s breast –
nothing more.
Fear and love war in my soul,
there is no victor,
but the battle takes a dreadful toll..

I look toward the wondrous night sky
and imagine what lies beyond.
Like an ant in a skyscraper’s basement
my perception is dim,
nothing more than a whim.
Faces pass in the crowd,
I smile, move on.
Onward, never resting, till journey’s end;
and friendless on that last day,
I die alone…


“It is because the poor are too weak and afraid to lie and steal that Jesus called them blessed. That is why Christians despise the poor. In a capitalist democracy people are only worth what they are worth.” – Kurt Poleet, After I Died

borrowed blue

What had this furious one won through mischievous deeds?
A soliloquy of sorrow, borrowed blue, an intense void.
She appeared on a whim on a moonless night.
Her hair, golden silk, shielding saddened eyes.
Trembling voice,
trembling hand.
It was just an act; no impending fate.
Once the tears and blood had dried
I tried to understand.
But by then, borrowed blue, it was much too late…


“Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them.” – David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature