To Her, So Full of Doubt

My love has eyes,

But cannot see how I can be lost in them,

Small hands, not delicate, but strong,

Are somehow seen as weakness.

But I know them to be capable,

I know that those hands 

have great works they have done.

And good works yet to do.

A heart that beats off kilter,

But still has room for all the small things,

The leanest things find shelter there,
And take succor from her kindness

And the words she mastered,

Send me reeling, plucking all

my ivory-tower heartstrings
with the tripping of her tongue.

She is all those things to me,
her glasses at the tip of her nose,
her hand on mine, her other 

prying open Thurber.

She speaks of Rex.
She speaks of fables
of medicines and treatments,
But every word means "love"

Poem from a Sick Bed

Poem from a Sick Bed

Here I sit In a place of misery Poked and prodded Hounded by ghosts In blue and white scrubs. Broken and bent, I should feel Worse than this. But I look into your sweet brown eyes, And feel your tender touch, And I know I have found home ______________ She told me to write a poem while she took a break. So I did.

A Crab haiku for a wedding party between the Lion and the Scorpion

The clash of metal
Echos across the courtyard,
Sounds the wedding gong

A Love Song to a Razor Blade

There you sit,

Fixed atop the haft,

Penny new,

Fresh and gleaming.

My skin awaits you,

fresh from the bath,

anointed, balmed,

aching for your touch.

The touch that lifts,

separates and surgically

trims me, leaving me

naked, bare to the world

And then we are done.

I cleanse you of me,

forget you,

and put you away.

With apologies to Lord Byron

"We'll Go No More a Raiding"

So, we'll go no more a raiding,
So deep within the Blight,
Though the wife be still as scathing,
And the display still as bright.


For the butt outwears its seat,
And mouse wears out its pad,
And the body must pause to eat,
And you youself smell bad,


Because the night was made for raiding,
And the sun light fills the room,
Yet your wife is still a'raving
It is time to log-off soon.

There was a moment
Where my body just quit
Following the plan.

Cotton-coated vipers told me
I wasn’t the rebel,
No, my blood had that job
My own internal Benedict Arnold

Coldly they told me that
 A phalanx of traitors
Sped through my blood-stream,
White-clad and brutal,
And in every vein.

Dividing and dividing,
Unceasing, unheeding,
The little bastards, once benign,
Once the greatest of helpers,
Now perversely, bringers of sleep,
A most mortal rest.

And the vipers came,
They poked and they prodded,
They sampled and drew blood,
They filled me with poison,
My blood stream, a scorched earth,
My skin, crackled, stretched
And alight with chemical pain.

But the therapy worked,
Five years of murder by inches,
A small price to pay.

For Angrist

How do I explain you to those who could not know?

Those who have not toiled and labored for that year,

that year of proving, of hard work and suffering¹?

No one can understand the residents of the island

of misfit toys, we speak our own native tongue.

We're stained glass, shattered and broken,

throwing crimson and sable light on the wall.

I'm not sure I knew you myself, James.

Not like the others, who loved you for decades,

and those who lived with you, your friends,

your freeloaders, and your final witnesses,

those people who knew of your pain.

We first met, I'm sure, on the field

on opposite sides, me quaking in fear

as you stood, towering, incarnate rage.

At Tracks², it was no different, barring

your wrathful inebriation, as you guarded my sister,

Jayde, who you knew as Brother³.

A bleary eyed mad-man you seemed,

Watchful protection for those in your care.

It was Jayde, who we now both call Brother,

It was Jayde, who gave me that call.

Can I tell you, Brother, how wrong I was

about you? The outsiders that never knew you,

seeing only Angrist the Twisted, Mad Prophet⁴,

never knew what we saw. How can I explain

to the layman the dread of hearing you chuckle?

The glee of a brilliant mind turned to mischief,

only you knowing where the hammer would fall.

And I heard tales from a fellow Brother

(that foul Hobbit, trickster, the memory for us all)

of your journey to the redwoods and your hikes

on the trail. There was a pain there I never knew,

but Hobbit said, “the redwoods make him calm.”

I hope one day to make it out there, and see

all that you saw. But we spoke of a call?

The phone call was short; what was there to say?

It was shocking, to hear what had passed,

to hear what had ended in powder, lead and flame.

At the service, I was numb, nervous, and guilty,

I had left you behind, trapped in self-exile

from the group, from my real self

So you live in our memories, the eternal

self-propelled engine of devotion,

endlessly loyal, forever the pillar,

never ceasing to astound us,

for good or for ill. We miss you.

You were there for us always, Brother,

And we will meet you at the Gates⁵.

1My country in game requires a year of service before one could join. Petitioners often had to dig a pit big enough to roast a pig for the annual anniversary camp-out, along with other menial tasks and grunt-work.

2A late and lamented nightclub in SE DC.

3The country started out with only male members, who addressed each other as “Brother.” When the first female member successfully petitioned, tradition held, and she was given the same form of address.

4Angrist was James's character name in Darkon, though it might also be said that James was Angrist's character name in real life.

5 I could explain this, but really, just read this as “I’ll meet you in Paradise” and it’ll make more sense to you.