The way to her heart
is a mystery.

A maze, it is,
a labyrinth that leads
to culs-de-sac
on every path a man can take.

Then a smile,
a teardrop betrays her
and tells me that
I stumbled in.

I stumbled in.


All is shades of black
and white and grey
and sad cloud underbellies
that hide silver rumors
from the soul.

There is no way out.

There is no way out.

There is no way out
until there is.

Sweat and motion
and words and sounds
of clash and hurrah
call to the inner desert
and cold silence.

Ceilings crack
and buckle as sweet
agony burns the air
and sucks life itself from the dark.

The next sunrise

The sun once rose in the east every day.

Summer mornings broke
warm and early
and afternoons were baseball
and tag and hiding and seeking
and sweaty until the bell and dinner
and more play and sweat until
dark and beyond.

The sun hides now and we seek it
amid clouds and fog.

Play and smiles are memories
that fade with time and heil salutes
and hard, grim resolve.

The next sunrise is a hope,
a wish, a dream.

Good morning is a prayer,
that all we love will survive
and rise again
when the clouds and fog
burn away.


A nameless poem, aimless words,
left scorned, unadorned,
at risk
of eternal unreadness.

No verse to be fixed
’til it fits in the mix, to be tagged
on the ear like a pig.

Nor indexed, nor cited,
all love unrequited,
for lack of the lie
called Untitled.