Fault Her

I fault her…
for failing to escape
the instability
that madness rings
in my mind
circling like crows and vultures
I fault her…
for failing to escape the binds
that encircle hallucinations
around delusions
or a small hit of delirium
burnt on silver paper
and sold for a nickel at the market
to falter…
Fault her

I fault her
for failing to fight the bars
and lies brought on silver trays
indicating madness
in the type of mind that abdicates
while the cell doors slam shut with a clang
and stars shine beyond the pollution of my mind
breaking the fucking restrictions
I fault her
for missing the sunset and moonrise
that lingers in a primal instinct
of wolves chasing the rabbit
down the hole that led a strange little girl
into depths of madness named Alice
for believing something more
something more than the reality presented
on silver trays
and drug induced normalcy
stumbling in the bright light of spring mornings
seeking the comfort of padded autumn nights
I fault her…

I fault her.



Like a rabbit running from the wolf
the wolf chases me

Like a rabbit escapes the coyote
the coyote spurs me

Like a rabbit dodges death
death watches me

Run rabbit run
lull death into complacency
Run rabbit run
escape the snapping jaws at your heels
Run run rabbit run, run, run

and like Alice I follow down the dark hole


Past, Present, Future

I hear the past
like a train whistle
echoing in an empty tunnel
the wheels clickety-clack off the rails

I hear the past
like a fire crackling
while smoke rises in a crumbling chimney
the wood pop hiss glowing in the dark

I hear the past
like thunderous feet
pounding on cobblestones
the hooves clop-clop chase my back

I hear the past
as if it were present
while the future slips away
and I race to escape its clutches


You don’t see me

You see what you want to see
the broken doll who dances for your pleasure
or the angry depressive who refuses to take your blame

You don’t see me

You only see what you need to see
the sparkly shards that glint in the sand
or the pretty painted affectations that spark your imagination

You don’t see me

You only see what you project upon me
the pictures you pull from my words
or the interpretations you decide lie between the lines

You don’t see me

You see only what you want to play with
the toy that waits beneath a bow to unwrap
or the silent object for your manipulation





Yet here I stand, plain as day, performing vivisection upon my soul
displaying my entrails upon the glistening sands
waiting for the gypsy to read the tea leaves of my self immolated wounds

Emotional Grains

This was originally published December 2012 under the title “Grains not of Time”.  After seven years and almost three hundred poems, I thought I’d republish with a new title for those who missed it the first time.

Grains not of time but emotion
falling insipidly through the hourglass
catching not the dark, hard, edges of hate
or pain
or sadness

But piling on all the lost seeds of love
of joy
of grace and happiness.

The minor chord crashing chaotically among the ravaged
grains not of time but emotion captured like fallen
birds with broken wings, fluttering on a splintered
wooden deck.

While the shards of my splintered soul
lay shattered at my feet
mingling with grains not
of time

Mixing with souls sold on the market of word merchants
and broken dolls I wait among the detritus
of unmatched pairs
until I fall among the grains
not of time
emotions, lost while the king with a dented tin crown
mocks my solitary stance
among an old oak tree and
a fluttering bird.


She stands at the gravestone in the center of the lane
a fork in the road, a choice, a marker of indecision.

She stands at a gravestone engraved for a fifteen year old girl
at the beginning of a life ended before it started.

She kneels with flowers for a gravestone weathered with age
and aged by weather, the winds of madness, chaos swirling the dried leaves.

She bends at the gravestone for a fifteen year old self
and whispers a tale of truth, you made the right decision, I’m sorry.

She whispers at the gravestone a prayer of forgiveness
please forgive my indecision, you were right, so long ago I should have listened.

She lays a bouquet of calla lilies on a gravestone that stands alone
and asks, Do you wait for me all these years later?

She turns from her gravestone lost in the dark of an empty road
while black dogs sniff the dirt looking for bones.