Fairy Garden



She still believes in fairies.


They write her notes in the garden

Populated with the homes she’s made for them,

Where occasionally a wildflower

Will bloom, bright and blue,

Half-expected, that welcome, noble guest,

Around which the fairies will dance

Forever through the night.


She’ll hear their music.


I will, too, sometimes – rarely –

Though it’ll never sound the same,

Because that is what time does to one,

Layer by layer like a sandstorm

Stripping you of every ounce of faith,

From which you once so freely drank

Of that most holy of chalices.


She drinks too greedily from that fount.


Soon, she’ll wonder why that cup,
Which once overfloweth,

Is looking emptier by the day,

Youth, she’ll lament,

Lasts but a summer.


She knows that summer is ending soon.


The Pettiness of Dreams


Inspired in part by Herbert’s ‘Mr. Cogito Laments the Pettiness of Dreams.’


The Mariana had been COMING SOON

Since the Fall of Rome to barbarian tribes,

Yet the wasteland it would one day sit upon

Seemed to me like the fallow fields foretold to follow the End of Days,

Like a slim, white dog following its master,

Searching for scraps,
Withering away with the ebb and flow of time,

Until one day the wicked wind will whisk it away,

And it’ll waver, waif-like, before twirling away in a whirlwind

Of boundless, ecstatic freedom.


The Mariana is like that, too,

Unendingly patient, watching;



One day,

She’ll weary of waiting

In the wasteland where the pools of water –

Most of it left over from Noah’s flood –

Gather to whisper their terrible secrets

Unto the nightmares of children;

And COMING SOON will peel itself away,

And float away, dandelion-wish-like,

Up, and towards greater things,

And the billboard will continue

Rotting its way into the sea,

And then – only then –

Will the Mariana awaken from her restless sleep,

And lament

The pettiness of dreams.

Ten Thousand Distant Suns



I hope you did not hear me call your name

In the middle of the night,

When darkness fell too heavily upon my shoulders

For me to bear its weight alone.

I pray you did not witness my weakness

In the crimson dawn,

So weary was I from the waiting

That I wept as light flooded the valley.

I wonder if you saw my fall

In the strange noon-day shadows,

And if the glint of the guillotine will remain, ghost-like,

In your memory, at night, when silence surpasses all sound,

In the dark, when the weight of your guilt falls too heavily upon your shoulders

For you to bear its weight without praying for redemption,

But I cannot yet forgive,

And you will shoulder the blame as Atlas upheld the Heavens,

Weary, and with much regret.

I hope you’ll hear me calling, then, and

I pray you’ll remember my moment of triumph –

You know the one –

And one day, when night falls and our Kingdom comes,

You’ll hear the music of wild, feral drums, and

The darkness shall be lifted by the foreign light of ten thousand distant suns.

All Fall Down



You are held entranced by

The pale milk river of her arm against yours

And the new-leaf softness of her hand as it curls around your own,

And her voice, it sounds like the church bells

Whose ringing prophesizes the setting of the sun.


It is quiet until she speaks,

But it is silence that falls

When she asks,

“Stand with me,”

And all you can do is fall,

Recklessly, ruthlessly, ruinously


Love, Vanquished




“Why don’t you write a joyful poem?”

S’il vous plait,” she says to me,

“Poetry”- a subject about which we have spoken comparatively little,

“Is mournful by nature.”


I am struck, as if by lightning,

Not by her seeming revelation

About the nature of the artform in question,

But by the formality of her please.


She is one of those dying breed of people –

The ones who understand with brutal intimacy

The difference between te and vous,

The ones who use language like the fine edge of a blade,

Ruthless, remorseless, ravenous,

Knowing just where to wound –

How to throw salt upon one’s soul

So it will strike those pulsing, jagged wounds,

How to wield a fire, wild to the last,

And tame it.


I am silent,

And she switches back to English,

But I cannot speak,

Not in one language, nor in two.



I’ve found,

Is, indeed, mournful by nature,

Not unlike the art of love.




The trees

Look like the sea of my dreams,



They are the rough waters

Into which I have fallen,

And these November currents

Are as brutal as they come.


They are fragments

Of a different life,

The one I’d thought I’d live,

The one that came and went

As swiftly as Lucifer did,

His chains swinging, singing as they fell,

And Him –

Weeping, not for himself,

But for mankind.


They are the fault lines

Upon which my city is built,

The fractalized wooden sentinels

That stand in lieu of worshippers

Within the House of the Savior

After it’s abandonment

Some time long and long ago.

Kingdom Come: Young Gods

Hello, all! I made an AMV based on Kingdom Come, my latest space opera. Join Wren (Lady Earth) and Dareh (King Jupiter) as they peruse the wing of the Jovian Royal Galleries dedicated to ‘lost’ Earth art.

Kingdom Come will be a trilogy featuring King Jupiter, his Queen – the Lady Earth – and his Prince Consort, Zephyr Zaia of Earth, as well as his former lover, Lord Mars (Resheph), as they fight to save the Outer Worlds from a civil war that threatens to spill into the neutral territory of Earth. The fight for Earth will see ancient alliances brought to the breaking point and the Lord Planets will find themselves racing against Time itself to save their people and their brethren. Will the fighting end with the Nine Worlds in flames, or can King Jupiter rally his forces before all is lost?