Perhaps an artisan’s chisel and hammer
may deconstruct the carefully concealed façade

Revealing rivulets of imperfection
mayhemically scarring limestone

The chert, befouling exquisite slate
by its mere existence and presence

Swirling impurities metamorphosed
from pressurized, complicatized layers

A frantic fractality of feints
fragmented for misdirection and survival

To some, presumptive beauty in stagnant veining,
forever frozen by its lusterless repose

But like the statue that exists in every
block of marble, his irrelevance is ever there;

You need only to hew away the
rough walls to reveal it


Adorned in his button down
The curve of her back
As she eagerly leans over her lap
Where his freshest open wound lay
A flower to her nourishment drawn

A petal hovering above
Anticipating the page’s turn
Hair held up by a yellow no. 2
Save a languorously dangling curl
Persistently insistent on reading along

Backlit by the fleeing sun
Who perhaps fears his written word
She betrays her position
With a finger’s pause on the paper
As her lips subtly recall bearing witness

His pacing has stopped
It never gets him anywhere
Wounds notably heal as he watches her read
As he reads her every angle and nod
Ashamed that her eyes might see him witless

Eyes so intense and intelligent
Holding the page like it was his hand
A sparkle of dusk, dew manifests on the blooms
She understands the darkness before her
There’s hope hiding and love in the lines, a coming dawn


Pendalogues of lamplight

Falling down the stony stares

Tripped when realization dawns

That no one really cares

Swaying absentmindedly

Inured to dulcet voices

Hollow in the lamplit room

Immured by darkened choices
– ◈ –

Pendalogues of madness

That feed the freshet down below

Turn crystal pools of sadness

To sanguine shores that overflow

Neither vestige of a memory

Nor stain of blood-soaked tear

All that’s left is emptiness

Like there was while living here


The shadow, swallowed by the darkened corner
The below average, bringing down the curve
The dead, overshadowed by the crying mourner
The straight-laced, out done by the crazy swerve

The teardrop, melting in the scalding shower
The single note, dropped in the concert hall
The whisper, lost beneath the voice of power
The mighty tree, unheard in the forest fall

The words, overlooked for the pretty pictures
The heart, hidden behind the wretched beard
The new, stepped over for the familiar fixtures
The potential, consumed by that what’s feared

The invisible, he; no one’s cup of tea


A contemptible, sloven cur, is he

Always quickest to pick a fight

Quicker still to hide or flee

A rabid dog without the bite

Time one day will put him down

Though his father began years before

While the bitch went off to lift her gown

A beaten pup, a father’s rage for the whore

He tries to put himself to sleep

This barfly, this drunken hound

Makes a living by being the creep

Hoping his time will soon come around

No love was shown this mangy beast

A mistake who was allowed to breathe

He’ll make the most of what is least

Until his fangs no longer seethe