The Two Knights

On the merlons of the lookout tower
Yesterday’s strangers
A body of two
Rigged in their metal garb
And a sword for me and a sword for you.
There was no rain
Just wind
Sweet calm wind that whistles in your ear
Like an old friend’s husky voice
Eyes locked in a supreme
Hazel on double
Limbs moving like the
Flickering fingers of a master pianist
Cinema stop motion
I wish I were a nephologist
That I may look to the sky
For every one of my
Days and every one of my


Read At Your Own Risk

This mass of matter that we strut around
That we call ours and show off
That we point to and say
This is me
You are an equation
X = you/2
And there,
On that graph paper
Is half your life.


Deluxe ion influx in the cyclone
Of cells up there
In that case of bone.
This cake of carbon that you call you
Is not you
And it sure as hell is not stardust,
It is the stuff that became stardust.
And for now it is all together
All the protons,
All the electrons,
All the neutrons
Together at this point,
They might make another
Or none at all
Maybe lonely particulates one day
But wherever they are then
Is already determined
All they have to do is be.


We think that we think
Just a bunch of foreseen reactions
Of matter
Foretold eons ago
Your decisions are not your decisions
They are not even choices
Just how it will go
How it has always been meaning to go
And every time time comes by this time
They will go as they will go.


How easy it is that what happens
Has happened,
Is happening,
And will happen
Again and again and again against all action and any advice
And there is nothing that can be done
Don’t even try,
Or you could
To fruitless avail
For you shall do what you will do whether you do or do not.


A predetermined fate some might state
Hah, how preposterous it is
To mock it and rub it in the dirt
And berate it as fate
Fate is a joke for the little folk
Not fate my friend
Not destiny not chance.
It is
By whom?


It was not predetermined that
The electricity in my noggin
Would align such that
I’d know the answer
So alas I cannot amass my brain
To do what it cannot.

The Street Lamp

Five forty-eight in the evening
I sat on the concrete bench heaving
By the side of the street near the park
There where the world ends and the grass begins
And waited for the street lamp to come on.

I twiddled my fingers and trained my eyes
On the barren bulb
Towards the skies.

Five fifty-eight in the evening
The street lamp is not yet breathing
But here it comes now
The golden glow
The warmth of a hearth.

I wonder from where it had come
I wonder whom it was from
I get up and return to my life.

I will be back tomorrow.

Twelve Forty Six a.m

Where am I when I’m not here?

Another place


It is day

How do I know?

There is a weary senile oak


There is an ill-colored sun

Grizzled and tired, older than

The day says it should be

And it spatters rays

Like a leaking water hose

Sprinkles here and there

Of crusted faded light

The moon of the night

Is brighter than this

But the sun

The ancient one

Labors on

Carrying his load

Tattered boots on the crusted road

His back arched low

Yet he shines

He shines and shines and shines

And the grey brown-green tree

Smiles and smiles and smiles.

Better Out Than In

My skull is a prison.

I have clipped the wings of the only thing that sings,

I cannot bear the sight

Of the feathered white

Stuck in the confines of my cramped mind.

He rasps and scratches at the silver lock,

Rejoin his birdly flock.


There is a magic in words.

The leftovers of your magnificent meal,

A burning fire only you can feel

Deep inside your itching guts

As your eyes take them

And etch them on your heart.


And through you, you feel a flow,

A hundred voices, a brilliant glow,

The greatest drum starts to grow

Within the walls of your empty chest

As your brain awakens from its year-long rest.


Find me the key

Water for the poem-tree

Set the blue-bird free

Fly up, fly up and be.

I Looked Around and I Wrote This

I find myself sinking in quicksand,

Gripping and clutching with my last free hand.

Could this be my final stand?

Here in this barren land

Oh, oh my death would be so, so grand.


They threw me into a dark well,

Chained me up, a dog in a cell,

Pushed me down to bloody hell,

In the damp where I now dwell

But I knew, even as I fell

I strived, I struggled, I fought well.


My hands and my heart are always at war.

There is nothing on this Earth I will ever kneel before

No man, No bear, No boar,

Whatever creature stands on this floor

There is always a crack, a window, a DOOR.


Raw humanity

Deep inside of me

The last few threads of sanity

Keep a hold of me,


My very own ropes coiled tight in this mind

Can barely bind

Can barely close my eyes, blind

Can barely leave me crippled behind.


With every last ounce of might

I fight

With every last ounce of might

I ignite

With every last ounce of might

I am alight

With every last ounce of might

I finish this poem. I write. I write. I write.