Disconsolate Nights

Alone and wand’ring in the dark,
Out on the beach ’til very late;
With only beer to comfort him
And mem’ries streaming in a wake

The moon hangs low, disconsolate,
The waves are muffled, nearly still;
Like waiting for a morning star
That never comes
And never will


(Back when I would go three days or so between sleeping. – Owen)

The Creative Type

I always wanted to be the creative type,
Although I can’t say why now, looking back —
You think of it as building sort of worlds,
Instead of filling in some void, or lack —

But what is it but random muscle play,
Or telling jokes in giant empty halls,
Recounting stories no one thinks of twice,
Or crying to the ceiling or the walls?

And yet, when I was six years old, I drew,
And added in the colors: green, red, blue –
And though there was no crowd, no audience,
I knew, at least, that that one page

Made sense

The Constant Battle

Her back hurts, so she cannot rest,
And work is suffering these days;
She’s daily there, within a haze
Travailing, tired and depressed

But when she can, she breaks away;
She sits alone somewhere offsite,
And for one moment, doesn’t fight
The constant battle that’s today

The Lonely Night

The lonely night is never done;
It stretches on, in endless wake –
And closes in with memories
And dreams, beneath a constant ache

To walk upon the haunted earth,
To lie upon a sleepless bed,
To hope for nothing but the dark,
And pray that slumber’s just ahead –

But restless, rising up to go,
To walk out towards the waxing light –
These barren trees, they know the dark,
They’ve wrestled with the lonely night

The day will come – it always has –
But eyes will not be there to see:
The night will claim its prize at last,
The pride in you
The hope in me

(no title)

. an empty house .

this house has never said my name before
a name now ringing clearly in the air
i guess the haunting starts now that you’re gone
you took my heart, my soul, my life,
my beer

so i sit down to write my life away
gaslighted like poor ingrid in that film
the king of solipsism on his throne
an empty kitchen cupboard for
a realm

How Will I Hide Today?

How will I hide today?
If I could jettison this heart,
I think that just might be a start:
The callous live and walk and breathe
And seem so oft to be at ease —
I want to feel the more a little less
I must confess.

Make sure that no one knows…
This is the art I’ve mastered now,
As I explore the subtle how,
And glide through every harmless scene
With my innocuous, dull mien,
Presenting someone here who isn’t there,
Or anywhere.

So I will skate this ice.
The day is pale, the sky is gray,
And I was meant to be this way:
The summer turns inside to cold,
And what’s ‘experienced’ but old?
How will I hide myself today?

And who cares

Anyway

{ … the empty silence … }

the empty silence swallows us
when we tune out the noise;
the politics of hatred in
a world of equipoise –

the hollowness of everything,
the shadows in our eyes —
the camera that shows the soul
behind all our disguise —

we give in to the hatred, and
the calumny, the violence:
but come to reckoning at last
within the empty silence.

the empty silence swallows us
and chokes our last confession:
we saviors who would fix the earth,
but die within
depression