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.





I saw you, yesterday,

Holding a rose as our lives converged

For one fleeting moment;

And I knew it was not for me,

But imagined it was,

There in the tunnels,

Where the clouds of our breath followed us

Into the train,

And all the way home,

A miasma from a different time, another place,

Now lost;

The world in which that moment was spawned

 Having changed, irrevocably,

For such is the nature of things,

To never stand still,

Even for an instant,

Not even long enough for me

To see the flower you didn’t pick for me

As more than a brief, blood-red blur

Of a life we will never live,

And a moment

We’ll never recapture,

Enraptured though I was,

By you,

And a red, red rose

Destined to win another woman’s heart.


Wild Thing




Pardon me,

That I may gaze upon you,

Your figure twisted into a Peaceful Warrior,

Hips stacked, body balanced, arms aligned, head high,

Staring into the face of the universe without fear,

The sunlight dappled across your skin like waves

Lapping upon the shore of my dreams,

Like a heat map that leads my eyes to yours,

Like a road flare illuminating the shadows of your soul,

And in the half light, the moment stretches, and,

Brought to the breaking point,

Sings one last warbling note on its golden lyre,

Then shatters.

More Faith than Flesh



I toss my troubles

Down the wishing well,

Watch them until they melt into the inky black,

Bid them farewell, if only for the night,

And let myself wander the alpine forests of my youth,

Where the wax seal of time

Is still warm from the pouring,

And the swaying, golden fields of life

Have only just begun to be harvested,

Where the air is redolent with the heady scent of loam

Mixed with distant traces of sea foam;

And if a tree falls in this forest,

It won’t make a sound,

So unburdened am I

That I am more faith than flesh.

eschatology: a poem



(Eschatology: Noun. The theological study of the fate of the world.)


I am the rain that falls,

I am the wind
That wearies the wanderer.

I am the silence
That befalls all sound.




I can think of no better metaphor

Than the glorifying sun

Yielding to the inkwell of the night

At the end of everything;

Time – such a cruel mistress –

Finally running out,

The sand in the hourglass

Surrendering the last of itself

At the journey’s end;

And, at long last, it was over.

The Voyage



Distant and void,

Frigid and alone,

Far from where they started,

Yet no closer to where they’re meant to be,

Are two lonely little spacecraft

Tasked with filling the silent spaces between the stars

With the riotous song of the human dream,

Themselves dreaming of an ending,

A point in space and time

When they can rest,

And where they can find themselves spinning

Around some distant star unlike our own

On a collision course,

A billion years from now,

When humanity is but a ghost,

Echoing, lonely and lost,

Around the epicenter of a stage called Earth,

On which their song was sung,

Upon which their battles were lost and won,

From whose green and blue depths

 They launched two small voyagers

Just to say,

“We were here.”