Thursday, November 17, 2011


This is where restless hands dig doubt.
Scratchy gray threads of cheap upholstery, explored.
We search for solace from ourselves.

Orange lamplights dance in half-built streets, illuminating metal arms of sleeping cranes.
Morning dew hangs in the air. We do, too,
suspended, silent, still.
Our tongues are wrapped in cobwebs, important words left untouched.

We fight it off, until Atlas bends, weak and worn,
and Babylon crumbles.
Guilt recedes to the back of the mind,
a silent whimper pounding, pounding,

So here it is, here's Samson's call,
A bloody blow before a fall.

Sunday, November 13, 2011


Strong will.
Strong hands.

One is tangible, one is not.
One can be questioned. The other cannot.

And it's easy to question one when the other grabs you by the waist, no strings, no promises, no questions. Just surprises and lack of expectation.