The Wolf

The wolf of the blue light
gnaws at my ears and eyes.
Many watch his screen in gladness
wearing their newborn fear.

He devours the brotherhood of the world,
other souls are gladly offered by the sheep,
tossing their black lambs
to his sharp-toothed jaw.

He feasts upon the different,
their blood satisfies the fear;

for they did not believe.

He chases them in his shepherd’s robes,
consuming the shunned, the slow,
the dreamers of a different world.

He speaks in tongues,

entrails hang from his every word.
Their cries of the condemned are

clipped and muted deep within his belly.

He calls the dance he preaches, "Escape."
Away from those that must be culled,
for the saving of
the flocked.

Not the all.

Run.

Magnetism

Moths to the flame
Every dog looking for their day
Bears to honey
Boys to mischief
Tongues within the gaps of missing teeth
Fingers pulling loosened threads
A single shoe along the road
Coins upon the rail
that fly in the ointment
weeds thriving in a crack
the sole black sheep among the rest
the needle in the stack
the voice from deep within the desert
finding refuge from the rain
once in a million

me on any porch in a storm

Dew

The sun’s sword cuts the hedge
in darkly dappled slices
helping to hide my morning paper.

The wet yard follows my feet

back inside and across the kitchen floor.

Dew has always seemed such
a curious mystery to me,
like powdered sugar
dusted over the waiting world.

A wet sylvan velvet that arrives 

during the darkened morning’s gloam,

painted in perfect tiny droplets
upon every blade of grass,
then unveiled by the rising sun.


I have always thought
its arrival should be marked
by the chime of a small clear bell.
 

One that says the margin is coming
on the busy typewriter
hammering out the story
of today.