I lie awake.


Awoken from the hell of sleep, I roll fondly to the drink of bourbon, the sweetest grease of dishonor and demise. As the wind howls through the vacant windows of the empty faced buildings to the east, it slashes through the orange curtains that shield the morning with shadow; the darkness is cast from a hidden moon, the echoes of daybreak calling through the stars.


How many times have I awoken?

How cool is the day, the morning bright with honor and distraction: I have woken through the earthly pleasures of lust through the noon, but nighttime still haunts the land.


Bourbon makes ghosts of men, the beautiful spectres that ride the railways to the east in dim hours, drunken and unashamed. Too many souls have fallen to the vermin of sleep, the deathly cool that awaits the pit of human souls in the quiet of the trainway.


I have fallen from the glory of motion, the bliss of fury and love; in the evening, the young stroll unabashed in their foolish affections, their timeless joys alive on the wings of springtime pollen and rain.


How many souls have fallen?


Bourbon takes the hearts of men, the couth of women. Black stockings ride the waves of a lonesome gust in the horrors of midnight, only to return in the quiet of a new dawn, a new life, a new world.


Bourbon takes the lost souls into her arms; fear falls away from the depth of the spirit, walls crash like the deathly philistine of love and mercy. Who falls unashamed?


I have fallen.

Forgive me father.


The night has taken all that it has needed.







The Joy of Night

The Joy of Night


Love is a funny trouble; it never tastes the way it breathes.


The taste of honey, milk, affection. All that is loved is death in the ways of the world; the glory of love pulls from the chimings of rest. The black smoke from chimneys rises, the scent of burning wood. I have forgotten the taste of sugar; brine and liquor are all that remain.


All that remains is the glory of what once was, now dead in sleet and slumber, anxious in it's way. Death comes often but reigns unchecked, hungrily stalking the shadows, the old and the sick, the youthful and stupid.


I light a cigarette to welcome my demise; I praise the remnants of glory that I will leave, even if only in foolish breezes that run from the day. Only in honor shall I live, only in honor shall I die.


Those that have passed before me have known everlasting life in the shadows of pewter and gold, but as time rises, the crumble of steel and love grows great, diminshing the blessed artifacts of might.


I have loved.


To live is love lost, to die is to be found. Love rises in the smoke of buildings, the lonesome couriers of waste and ruin. The beauty that I've held rose quietly from the depths of my heart and fell like a hundred thousand deafening eggshells in the rising of the moon.


No one can know sorrow until love destroys them; there is honor in death and glory in destruction; all lives are lost but once, there are many days to live.


It should be in the sorrows that we rejoice, not the affected troubles of joy and moonlight. All things quiet and reserved live to revere the shadow: it should be in death, not life that we give our pain.


Joy is a bounty of tears and falsehood.

Let us rejoice in the coming of midnight, or do nothing at all.


Marigold of Morning

Marigold of Morning


Marigold of morning: the love of a beautiful death;

Marigold of morning, the hungry nighttime awaits your bloom.


In the merciless rains of springtime, evening cools the meadows gracefully like an undying love in the belfries of my heart. The stars watch silently as if they could fall from their celestial perch and dance along the avenues, free from the troubles of a crawling evening.


Marigold: I love you. Love is the beautiful demise that tumbles from the sun to the seat of the blessed, climbing the torrents of a youthful heart as a gracious terror. Who can halt the sunset? Who would chain the rain clouds to the pillars of men forsaking the modest wonder of a bountiful sky?


The numb of tribulation carries me along the winds; through the hungry gusts of a crimson nighttime like a grocery bag fallen hopelessly ill of the amourous desires cast by the listless clouds.


Marigold, how could you?


How could you love that which is unchained?

How could you breathe our love to another soul, a love that now travels along the vanishing gutters to the daybreak, wandering the lonesome alleyways until noon turns night?


Marigold: the beautiful death.


She is not a flower of indefinite beauty, but from the garden she is the one I picked. Let the whispering ruins of spring wash the city dry;

let the haunted loves of the timid scream a triumphant howl over the whimpering crowds of Broadway;

let the morning come with cleanliness and grace, with bright humors of a timeless victory;


all that can be asked lives in the drying petals of my love. All that is just is the beautiful anguish of death. It lives in the homesick gusts of a lonely fall.


All that is treasured will crash to the seas like a weighted moon on the tenements of a lovesick city.


Marigold of morning; the love of all will perish.




In the nighttime, all that isn't bolted with memory flies to the west.


It is said that the wild things march, seething with a beautiful agony that echoes through the moonlit avenues until the dawn rides through the alleyways with an undescriptive bliss and lust; the wild things march carefully along the fetid cobblestone with sunken eyes and crusted lips.


The hearts of these creatures can only be described as evil; those that torture the winds with magnanimous envies and carnal parades on a carnival of power and avarice. No one knows the glorious madness which suffers the pain of personhood, the depth of the woeful despise that wretches the lonely moonlight when the stars have left the sky to lie in their hovels of comfort and wicked blessings.


Love is a funny trouble.


I would wait with scratching fingers until blood poured down my wrists from angst and infatutation, hungrily dialing cellular phones in the darkness of my filth and my frustrations unspeakable now that ages have passed and manhood lies before me.


The wild things march at night; when dawn comes to rest in the sunshine of the day and the old replies linger on a drunken screen like a piano with bourbon in it's heart, twisting the classical beauties into majestic violence, a heartbreak too large for the tiny rooms of this earth.


I keep falling in love alone; lone triumphs mask the tyranny of night, when all things have come to rest in their loving demise; those that reap havoc from the fields of their fury while pondering the quiet calls of the redbirds through the trees of the vacant parking lot.


No phone calls return and in the dim glow of amourous distractions, I hate myself, my many lives, my body, my home.


The wild things march at night in the homes where nobody knows, beneath the haunting luminescence of the retail awnings, smoking cheap cigarettes and cheaper downfalls, drinking liquor too strong to numb the loud reelings of a dangerous world into a lull of sleep and warmth. The homesick winds roll troubled and I watched my life pass before my eyes; the many loves, the many hates, the swing set of my youth.


Innocence can only be taken. The rest is a duty of God; blood and fire rule this world.


My many loves can only be described as loathe. I await the stillness of morning, the stillness of an honorable death, the axilaration of numbness, sinking through my sheets into a lonely hell on east 16th street waiting for the day.


In the noon, the wild things rest. Their anxious sorrows drift to the promise of some day and the morning cools to the rain of spring.


I rest in the noontime reigned by sleep only to awake for a wretched meal of truth; the quiet angst of morning that slips insidiously into night.


I envy those who still love the world.






In reclusion there is solace.


Its is a home for the wanderers in a soul so shrunken from the worldly tightenings on the chest; civil disfunction bounds through the asphalt green, fiendish lust carries on the sidewalks wet with the tears of prior evenings and honorable woes, let those in exhile not be judged.


I have walked through the valley of shadow, the meadows of low lying evils; I have cast my body to the dogs, my mind to the sick and disgusting mad, even breathed halted breaths of cerualean tar that twisted into the rib cages of wealthy cowards. I fear the night; the shadows thrown from God's feet like a hell of fire and ice, a bounty of malice where the wild things roam.


I fear the darkness:


the streams of whiskey that course from frightened tongues

the lonesome tom cats, day drunk with a powered strut, crashing from the

molten tin of the fire escape and falling into the crowd of devils and horrors.


I fear the moonlight:


where the deluge of tears shines through the windows agape

where the ruins of an early spring fly farther through the midnight on the

weapons of young kings and the bosom of

a hungry goddess.


When the nighttime rolls, I'll be there to catch it, to capture it in the misted silver of a wide mouthed jar of rum, hopelessly praying for morning to rise once more and shun the hundred shadows that linger at my doorstep.


When morning comes I will be the one to run home once more and watch the night from the window of a jar, the one to gaze through merciless tears in a room with closed curtains and cold wood floors.













The ocean calls sometimes: over the hushed brick avenues and the water slicked awnings, I feel the lonely echo of the starving moon. The low of the sirens bray in the hungry nighttime as the clouds strech their smoky fingers along the starless horizon to mask the love of the celestial dreamtime that hangs over head.

I used to sit along the docks and skip stones beneath the downpour of the busy overpass with a weathered pack of cigarettes in my pocket and a heartache in my lungs, afraid to let my shame pass through my caged, tar-black lips. The thunder of the waves is a call to arms and a farewell to guilt: I hung my head lower into my rib cage. Time would never tell.

Six dollar whiskey was my brother, a dead dog was my child. I bid farewell to the night time with a dirt rag along my left wrist and joking sunlight in my hair. I think of her sometimes: when the moon is full and the seafoam calls once more. When the old hobo ruins crowd away from the walls and sing a lullabye of power to the tenements that once were, now caped in the moonlight of time.

I think of the ocean when it calls, but the ocean never thinks of me. I think of her sometimes, but time can never again sing a sorrow that I desire.