Love Poem

My pen dips deep, lingering

in the warm inkwell of your endless ardor.

The ink of passion flows for me tonight 

and I would show you how it feels, 

my muse, to be truly needed.

I would write poems of love's power 

on the parchment of your skin, 

secret words, that only you can understand 

until my pen runs dry and I return 

to dip again, 

in ink created by ecstasy 

for the calligraphy of desire.

A Rare Thing

She was a rare thing
so fine and lacy she flowed
on the breeze or spoken word
walking about like a playful eddying wind
revealing its path in what it moves

Writings From The Dark Journals

I

I hate you, mirror.
I hate the mask you wear
your eyes assuming a depth
they do not possess, drawing me
into the grotto of your skull
filled with horrors, and words
so fake and scented
with rotting meat.

Last night, right here, sobbing
I asked you: What are you feeling?
Do you feel anything?
I feel this world is no longer viable
not for me, not any longer
Shut up and quit crying!
That is not a feeling.

II

In the time before dawn
I can recall, briefly,
what it is like to be myself
without the influence of others
and their alien ideas.

And then I'll lie here
twisting the emotions of the past year
into a knot, a story of madness
where I am the wooden ketch
that left the harbor today
on broad reach west, rounding the point
in my lee, Monterey Bay.

III

Fantasies of suicide; not enough.
To die is to cut off the pain.
When I dream of meeting the enemy
this is my dream:
gasoline, sickly sweet and pungent
ripples from my body, effortlessly
released, perfectly trained
on the true threat,
consuming this body,
burning away the lie,
leaving me in a new world
having morphed now
to a new man.