“The Statue”

In the midst of untimely ocean waves

a tiny continent sits and broods.

Crabs silently click along the sand

seagulls perch atop leafy palms and look down

where old turtles peek out from their shells

and monkies pray and shout, dropping fruit as tribute.

They all stare at a misshapen rock,

jaggedly odd from the surrounding boulders,

stone obsidian and form terrible against the sun.

From the base of dirt rises, first, angled horse legs,

stout legs that daily conquer field and range.

The body is a dashing rock frozen in time

and the mane a sharp grey shriek of war.

The nostrils two scents for the damned,

the teeth a murderous snarl,

the eyes regal and intent.

But the beastly terror is owned

by two other legs jutting from its slated ribs.

Army boot and calvary thighs twist into

tall and straight back indented slab of black.

Symbols molded into the chest,

palpitations of a stony heart,

medals of honor to duty of country.

The right hand salutes across the brow,

gaze fixed toward sunrise, horizon, and sunset.

The eyes themselves,

calm as a mother’s,

cheeks, soft as a bride’s,

the smile, could be a woman’s too.

The hat is a double edged, rimmed, ancient sword

and the curvy hair a scream trying to break through tomb.

And the left hand seems to hold an extention;

Shaped like a finger of judgment,

a long gun unmolested by pitiful rain

points its barrel at the soldier’s brain.


“To a Fellow Politician in Washington, July 6th, 2017”

I remember you once asked,

How should I best serve the people?”

What I’ll tell you will sound hard

but is naturally and fearfully easy.

First, you wanna work at night

when the dazzling stars inspire smooth rhetoric.

In private, mind you. Public needs require secret newsfeeds.

Be sure you have the right tools and the right spot.

What you design in the dark should sound like this:

Each American should have their own place of rest,

fashioned with our lightly taxed cloth

pillows full as a soft father’s hands,

blankets tight as a woman’s grip.

His bed should be framed by the sturdiest wood,

fitting all and only his substance;

teach him to be an individual

and chase his own American Dream,

with no helping hand but yours.

They may wonder about random stuff like

the grave, or the coffin, or what happens at night,

but you can always call the rugged earth a smooth garden

or the grave God’s good and biblical passport.

They’ll each fill so rested and relaxed,

they’ll soon fall asleep and pose no more questions.

Only then can you slowly root them in the country.

If they were awake, they’d tend to wander

about and beyond the border of the lid.

This is OUR nation, afterall.

When others ask “Why?” “Where?” “How?” “When?” you can say:

A terrorist kidnapped him” or “He wasn’t educated right” or such.

They’ll never suspect you.

And even if the sleepers awake, it’ll be too late.

They’ll be shut in the black, screaming.

“The Christmas Globe”

Though I stand in submerged silver, I don’t suffocate.

My fashioned flesh follows the years,

clothed in the same yarn and painted with the same face.

My setting remains where it’s always been, my background.

My knob is turned somewhere I do not quite know,

like the turning of clear air into snow.

I sing a universal tune

for His sovereign pleasure,

for his manly delight over me,

for her joy in twisting me,

for their purpose in ruling the globe.

But whether by chance or destiny,

my worldview was shattered one day

by a clumsy hand of power.

Though I can still breathe a sweet melody

and dance the old way in the old land,

they find me useless now.

For I’m no longer worthy in cracked design.

Yet I do not mind.

Though I’ll be thrown away, still molded in my limits,

I can see with free eyes unwashed with glittering lies.

“Red Ocean”

The sign post reads: Red Ocean

ruby tears rose sickness cherry eyes crimson knives sanguine hatred grinning sharks

fireworked heads sunrise rifles grinning sharks vermilion hours hateful fire tomato saws

grinning sharks scarlet screams bloodshot cannons clothes-hanged apples fearful fever stopped hearts

carmine teeth cardinal laws loving axes grinning sharks strawberry iris sunset death

ketchup cars chestnut chests boundless blood dying stars grinning sharks pain with no exit

auburn life grinning sharks veins in waves ginger metal melting apples eternity in wine

Grinning sharks

“Phoenix Logic”

The flame which burns you

is the flame that warms you.

The dry winter,

chapping soft lips and rugged earth,

gives way to a wet spring

invigorating the nose and breezy air.

Brown bears shuffle

their cramped, clawed carpet feet from

the mouths of oppressively dark dens,

like bold children struggling

from their mothers’ painful cocoons.

The clock on the kitchen wall

ticked too fast during Christmas cheer,

ticked too slow during the blizzard fear,

but now,

the numbers comet from the glass prison

as my freed mind dreams of approaching summer stars.

The river runs smoothly like fresh blood,

pouring into empty tombs of basins.

Poverty digs holes into your hands and money.

Yet poor people know they’ll ascend.

Broken hearts rewind whole

when the eyes catch shattered faces.

Though my red eyes washed themselves in grief,

the restless sick now descend into sleepy healing.

So I think of things like these,

as I lie on my bed,

warring to breathe,

waiting for this endless shadow to finally come.

Yet how is it endless?

Did pain not give to pleasure?

Did laughter not trump weeping?

For every death there is another birth.

My flesh will become warming flame,

for it was fashioned by burning flame.


“The Haircut”

I advised her against the haircut.

“You won’t be the same again,” I warned.

“I do with my hair what I want,” she replied,

“No matter what you or anyone else thinks.”


Oh to Christ would I wish she could see the love

and the affection I had in my solemnity!

For I’ve loved her since she was born,

her hair notwithstanding,

how it curls like a baby’s hooked arm on a blanket,

smooth and clean like a child’s washed head,

or how blonde it glows, just as my own daughter’s did,

all through her years.


She had the haircut not long ago, in a private place.

Her long strands have shortened. Neat, but a little abrupt.

I pray to God her years won’t be so.

She told me how the ugly scissors clipped away

at the hooked curls high above the blanket,

rough and dirty hands pulling at her head.

It’s still blonde but slightly darkened,

like a winter sun during a funeral.

Afterwards, the barber discarded the waste.


She seems happy with it, overall,

though her smiles are only half-full,

her glances darting at the corners of her eyes,

as if she worries what others think.

And the eyes have shadows too.

My motherly, muffled heart beats.

Oh to Christ if I could just take her in my arms

and cuddle her to sleep.

“The Cogs of the Underworld”

Stony suns engraved in rocky darkness,

the cogs of the underworld turn:

He paper-cuts his thumb at work.

The tiny slash stings red,

a small nuisance.


The cogs turn faster:

though the cheesy pizza was good,

his chest gurgles and tightens with acid,

shortening his breathing,

his hand clutching his chest.


The cogs turn faster still:

he aims poorly off the snowy slope

and cracks the joint and bone.

The pain waves his flesh,

making him yell in agony.

He flails his hands around the V-shaped leg.


The cogs turn even faster;

he’s lost his ten year job,

minor mishap caused it, would you know?

and now mental pressure

squeezes his eyes towards the poor street.

He’s running out of money.


The cogs spin rapidly in the black:

his wife leaves him, taking the kids too.

And while he lies on the floor,

the demons of his past taunting him,

tears try to redeem his purpose.

But the angels tread far from him.


The cogs turn his life away,

their brutal turning he can’t endure.

Yet his spirit endured the body.

Now he sees the underworld clearly.

And shrieks. And screams. And howls,

His renewed flesh devoured by three-headed teeth.


For him, and the unfortunate others,

the cogs of the underworld turn and turn and turn,

a silver speed as fast as eternity.