A Single Breath of the Raging Storm

A single breath of the raging storm
And the sickle of a thousand eves sparkle
As the creatures of the creek danced
To the sound of the plume and scroll



Let the laughter of reptiles echo
Hear the choral swaying of twigs
Amid the raging chorus of crickets
Hear the wild grunts of oktoberfest
Devour the feast of all hallow’s eve
And weep for the cruelty of yuletide

I will join the march of whimsy
And tread endless streams of lunacy

Fragments of a Lost Ode

uriel of the forest
warrior and prince
healer, poet and priest
shaman, yogi, warlock
lover, romeo, byron

child of the moon
purveyor of hope
in a world gone awry
from faithless resolve

Meanderings

an age bereft of reason
an era of dismayed prophets
of seers who have not foreseen
the brooding doom ennui entails;
we are ghosts,
enmeshed in Spiritus Mundi,
the Order,
cogs now in the scheme
of a dead deity;

rebellion has lost its luster,
revolution, its sting,
inanity, nay,
even tedium triumphed;



our forbears hath burdened
our age’s soul
with nightmares:
what hath this life come to,
whilst losing each shred,
each sinew,
of innocence?
a tired old wheel
spinning, spinning,
and each breath,
each death, forever
losing its meaning.

Millennial Musing

Ah, shake the evil dancer
Even now as she slumbers
Dreaming dreams of labyrinths
Minotaurs of yore
Of kings-cum-jesters
And knights prowling for flesh
And the lures of the night
Heroes hanged and villains praised
Evil triumphant perfidy regained
Mammon’s empire with heads for wall
And towers of bone armed with stones
An age of madness about to close
And the advent of paranoia among the throng


Ah, shake now the evil dancer,
Let her dream no more,
Stab her until life
Flows out of this heathen gnome.

On Robert Hass’s Final Article

I never realized that your valedictory
Was a foreboding of sorts.
Why read you now, now that the waiting is over
And judgment has been rendered,
And sentence meted to a life
Of forever clinging to the unclingable,
Of the never-ending days waking up
And dragging myself to a dreary end
Of unending chatter from morn till dusk?

Try to give yourself more time, you say, to create;
What a fortunate bastard you must be,
WhileI, in my desperation, contemplate a future
Of uncreating, inertia, ennui,
Doing the same things over and over,
A clown and creature incomplete, broken
Into minute pieces of guffaws and nothingness,
A hole in the scheme of god’s righteous world.