While the World Erupts

Clover fields

and sun-drenched skies,

wispy clouds,

they are but lies.



is shrill, is cold–

nothing’s real,

they’ve lost their souls.


Smiling kids

with viper’s fangs

ring their bells–

for death, they clang.


Lovers in

their secret rooms

turn to dust

inside their tombs.


Nations rise

while others fall

but this time

death comes for all.


Shadows play

before my eyes,


what next will die.


Go along

and play your games

while the world

erupts in flames.



Thought Control

A needle

pierces my flesh

and contortionist memories

begin to twist

through my



I try to blink,

to open my


but am pulled back

to the phantasm display


behind my lids.


Real and unreal


then separate,

then blend again,

like a kaleidoscope,

and I try to focus

on one single


like a spinning dancer,

to keep steady.


The imagery

swirls before me,

challenging my


and taunting

my future.


I try to scream,

but my saccharine

coated tongue

rests heavy,

like a sandbag,

damming up

a river of



The world seems

off balance,


and I fear I might

roll off  the



I can feel

the other bodies

in this living graveyard,

hear their moans,

and smell

the sour

of their frightened



I remember

when they brought us


or I think I do,

and I try

to hold on

to their reason–

their lie,

amid our

threatened truths.


They said

we were dangerous.

A threat

to order.

Enemy combatants.


But that

is absurd,

for the only weapon

I’ve wielded

was a








The Foundations

It’s all


We ignored the cracks,

now rebar whines

somewhere deep inside,

and the foundations begin

to groan.


A cloud crosses

before the moon,

and I wonder how close

Hati is to him now.

Someday he’ll be caught.

The wolf will


the moon,

in the end.


Even the music

has faded.

Each note blurs into

the next,

as they all rush past,

without notice.


Everything reeks of mildew

and rot.


I hear crows

in the distance,

and the foundations

groan louder.


It’s time to wake up,

dear ones,

or we’re lost.



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.



The Liar

Silver-tongued duplicity,

Through languid eyes

Pretend to see.

False confessor,

Plastic friend–

Illusions fade,

Your game will end.



One Day You’ll Wake

One day you’ll wake,

And it’ll all be gone.

You’ll feel like either you,

Or the world,

Has become alien.


Flags will still wave

On the tops of their poles,

Like patriotic cocktail decorations

For giants.

They’ll mean nothing though,

By then.


Selfies, politics, cats,

And disasters

Will continue to roll through your


But for once you’ll have lost

Your appetite.


The stores will be open,

People will have barbeques

And Super Bowl parties,

But they’ll have nothing,

Not really.


It’ll happen,

In time,

To most of you,

You’ll wake to see this

Stark truth,

But by then it will be

Too late,

If it isn’t already.


You’ll tear your hair out

Wondering how.

How could we have all

Let this happen?


But we will,

We did,

And we are,

Because even when we

Allow ourselves

To think of it,

We don’t think very far,

To what “can’t be”

Because it’s just

Too bad,

But somehow

Still is.


The end won’t come

Announced on CNN,

The New York Times,

Or the Huffington post.

They’ll still be shouting

Their warnings



The media will be


Stuck in a traumatic repetition

Of their warnings,

Unable to accept

That they were ignored,

While ignoring the nightmare

That surrounds them.


You’ll see.

It’ll all be gone.

Everything that matters,

Everything needed to

Sustain our humanity,

Will just be



But you’ll still be here.



Maybe that’s

The worst part of all.






Dead and Dying Cockroaches

A fine white dust covers almost every surface of this slowly disintegrating sixties-era three bedroom house sitting in the backwoods of Georgia (Rockmart, to be precise). Everything we own is blanketed in diatomaceous earth. I’m waging a war against an invading force of cockroaches, and I believe I have the upper hand.

I’ve been packing everything from the kitchen into plastic 70 quart Steralite Ultra storage boxes, sweeping, mopping, scrubbing, and moving nearly every heavy object I can before filling this odd accordion like cylinder with diatomaceous earth. The contraption is more difficult to weild than it appears, as too much or too little of the dreaded substance and the procedure won’t work.

Now at the top on the side is a tube that projects out maybe three inches and is about a half inch wide (I thought it was the bottom at first, but squeezing it that way shot out a thick stream of powder like a snow machine gone mad; easy for the cockroaches to see and walk around). What you do is aim this tube like a gun barrel and press the top and bottom together, sending out delicate puffs of razor sharp particles (for anything with an exoskeleton, that is) that will first cut their shells all over, and then dehydrate them from the inside out. Beautiful.

It sounds simple, but it takes two hands to squeeze the thing, and your aching wrists will hate you for it half way through the first room. The dust that fills the air is choking and smells like chalk. There is no escaping it. By the end you’ll be powdered up like an old-time judge.

The treatment is working though, and after a few days of this I see fewer living roaches. Those I see are usually belly up, their little legs frantically scraping at the air like Gregor Samsa. They’re all dead or dying around me, and I feel a creeping, smug sense of macabre satisfaction. I wonder if that’s how leaders see the defeated, see us when they decide we must be eradicated. Like dead and dying cockroaches.

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