the letter

I sit in the still of my house, low and somber,

all wishing for witching and time machine lumber,

my promises baking like pies in the fire,

a crayon-soaked clamp round my neck like a wire.


A small steady whisper keeps saying its lines,

“I know you are sorry, but really its fine.”

There Childhood and Innocence leer from the rafters,

and choke on the smoke of their recent disasters,


and reel from the paper weight of written words,

and never stop squeaking like smoldering birds.

I watch as they wriggle in subdued despair,

I watch as they point devilishly at air.


I stumble while seated and stutter while silent,

the cries of the birds rise, soulful and triumphant,

I lay down in decadence, which I ignore,

the beat of their wings echoes down to the floor.


I simper and whine like a dog put outside,

the Haunts grow much longer, and stronger, and wide,

I see or hear naught but their song like a flutter,

I bury myself in the bedding like butter.


The cushions are soft here, the food never ends,

I’ve time for my mind to sigh, wrecked on a bend;

these Ghouls which you send me are holy and just,

the way you work through my pain which,

dear, you must.


It is waiting,

the waiting when someone dies,

like they’ll come back.

The way they held onto your shirt,

and you mimic it,


The sigh of their eyes,

when everything is laid open,





Blame is a wretched lover,

blame is a ripped canvas.

Did they love me?

is always the question,

even when they stand in front of you,

or in front of someone else.

Are lies love?  Does pretend love


I mourn such passings,

the ones

where we are all

still alive.

loving to life

Loftily, a dragonfly plants himself

in the ground next to me,

violently brushing my hair and


“My sweet, look at me.  I’m still here.  I’m alive.”

Illuminant wings shimmer lovelier than

autumn fields, as he

moves them over my neck,

opulent nerve-lightning and sensory flames,

reforming my broken soul,

growing my heart strings.

Ancient orbs, he moves his eyes.

I hear feathered cackles;

up over his head, the robins fly.

See, how he smiles.

Dear C.,

Remember when we escaped

the holy sea of tents

and your girlfriend that one time?

I still remember the

freedom of the wind

coming through your car windows

while we blasted the radio

and laughed like laughing was oxygen,

and remember the fortunes?

Twenty-four in a row,

and yours opened flour and water

to reveal curses,

and mine promised divinity

in a cookie crust.

And remember when we sort of loved each other,

but never said so

until afterwards?

We had only ever joked about

my fork in the road,

and which way I should take.

You said you were waiting at one end,

and I pictured dancing casinos,

wearing red top hats,

and fast cars,

and the cloying singe of

cloves on my tongue.

But I said no.

I’ve had so many more forks, C.,

it’s hard to think about them all,

and how they’ve led me winding here,

to my happiness and dissatisfaction,

which is why I have to walk

with a foot on each side

of the path.