Not a whisper of sins, nor of broken boneswhere the Atlas ends and the night begins free as a phantom, buried in a teapot's urnand the dust spins without a vowel "Olly olly oxen free" 

Not for silver, nor gold  the hand reaches downfor a single blade of grass  sweet perfume, chlorophyll sharp enough to bite my tongue   not for silver, nor gold...Unforged

In Poughkeepsie, the dead never slept. They smoked cigarettes that glowed like embers plucked from hell, their fingers blackened by time yet still capable of grace. They danced a minuet on the hill above the bowling alley, where the...

Silenced save for the winter wind that whistle pastthe pane, a text of grim, unblinking fact. The floor,a simple mind would call wood, a canvas of dustaltered, snaring the crippled mind. A blend ofnarcistic behavior, saved for the silence...

In this graveyard of memories, I wander, cloaked in the twilightof November. The breeding stones of my mind held within. Mybones, threadbare of the moth's wings. Now a silhouette falling from the grave. Walking the shadows in an orchard...