Cultural Graveyard

The roiling masses

scoop ashes of yesterday

into purses of gold,

as they crawl through fog

unaware of its caustic fumes.


The scent of lavender

and a glint of emerald light

sneak out from cracked-stone monuments

to dead and misplaced dreams.


In the distance

A low wail begins.





A Haunted Imago

You seep through my veins

and my mask shifts to accomodate.

The past is swollen, bloated,

yet they worship it,

so we hide in alleyways

surrounded by decaying things–

A haunted Imago,

and misshapen wings.




Night has Fallen

A cradle lay abandoned

in a darkening room,

as one by one a dozen candles

expire near a forgotten shrine.


A bird of prey

perches atop a barren olive branch–

Lord of a dying habitat.

Night has fallen.



A Lodestone Abyss


I am drawn to the edge–

Iron flakes

To a lodestone abyss.


(I want to fall)


The cliff.

Toes grasp

The sharp stone boundary

Between land and air.


(I want to fall)


My pulse quickens

And I am alive.

Every cell inside me

Hums electric.


(I want to fall)



Back and forth,

I feel the lodestone

Pull me.


(I want to fall)


I hear voices

Far in the distance

Whispering dark warnings

Of gravity.


(I want to fall)


And yet…

And still…


(I want to fall)


I lean forward,

Just a bit,

And then some more.



(I want to fall)



I stare into the chasm

Restrained by a

Dissipating fear.


(I want to fall)


The lodestone pulls harder.

The whisper fades.

I close my eyes

And leap.


(But can I fly?)





Writhes inside me

Daring me to let go.

I drop to the cold earth and scream–

I’ve lost.


After the Rope Breaks

A crow caws

From the skeletal branches

Of the dying tree before me.

It jutts out,


From the rocky waste

Where I lie broken.


A squirrel scampers up and down

Its rotten trunk,

And in my fog

I think he is


Carrying insults

Between the eagle

And the serpent.


I try to shout at him,

Tell him to stop,

But my mouth is dust–


And tasting of chalk.

All that comes out

Is a sputter.


The world spins.

I heave and retch

From the coppery scent

Of coagulation

Filling my nostrils.



I look to the tree,

Searching for Hangi,

But there is just a dying tree,

And no secrets,

This time,

To pull from the well.




A Sliver of Enlightenment

You were born in a dark room. You have lived your whole life in total darkness, then one day someone opens the door to your room, just a crack, and the smallest sliver of light from a candle in the next room falls upon the floor before you. You are stunned, then sink to your knees and give thanks, for you believe you have seen the sun.

This is where most truly stand as they proclaim their enlightenment. The light, at first, may come with a sting, as they are unaccustomed to it, but their eyes adjust and they find the light gentle, harmless. If they had truly glanced at the sun, they would not become so comfortable so quickly, and they would have to quickly turn away to avoid serious damage to their eyes. The sun is bright beyond what is tolerable for us; it hurts the eyes and often burns the skin. Its heat can kill.

The sliver of candlelight falling before you on the floor to your room is useful; it illuminates the darkness, allowing you to finally see the shape and structure of the room in which you live; in fact, it allows you this understanding of a room in the first place, as without this light, you could not have known there was a door to be opened, and that it was only a particular space you inhabited, instead of all of existence.

This light is also beautiful, certainly, gentle and safe. From these truths we know that it is good that someone opened the door a crack, and it was good that this sliver of light fell upon the floor before you; it opened your eyes and explained to you what you could not have understood before about the nature of yourself, the world, and your place in it. But it is not the sun.

The sun is beautiful and sustains life, but it isn’t gentle or safe. So go ahead, remain safely in your room praying to the sliver of candlelight at your feet. Believe that it is the sun, if what you really want is safety, comfort. The truth is, it isn’t the sun that gives comfort when it’s high noon at midsummer, however, it’s the shade. For comfort people will always flee the searing heat and blinding brightness of the sun. Very few willingly brave the discomfort and experience the heat. Usually, if you have experienced a taste of the true power of the sun, it wasn’t a pleasant experience.


The Liar

Silver-tongued duplicity,

Through languid eyes

Pretend to see.

False confessor,

Plastic friend–

Illusions fade,

Your game will end.



A View from Below

Checkerboards upon the sky
And butterflies behind cold eyes,
A million shards, the shattered souls,
Through mist gaze up from secret holes.

A whisper trapped inside the glass,
A star that shines in rotten cask–
Empty the vessel, pour in the truth:
You are the fly, but the web’s in you.


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