The Song

A street lamp flickers down from on high and I’m thrown from my bike as God spits the flow of revelation.

He layith upon me the mantel of
Saint Coltrain,
I take communion with a hip flask of muddy waters, and a match box of nutmeg.

The angels sing a rag about rent to pay, and bills that pile on bills,
an osteoporosis croon accompanied by the clicking of aged bones and dementia’s muttering scat

The rain falls on the cement side,
grey moratorium, foot print frozen,
a fossil of days that dangle like tennis shoes tied, snared on wires buzzing with holy gospel

Coffee grounds tell the future in the derelict language of neglect

Cigarette smoke bends and zags a geometry of secrets, a conspiracy of jazz, an accusation of rhythms profound, the infinity chorus still singing to the plucked thwang of the

Big Bang, the violent percussion of being, accompanied by the deep bass sea of durac, the poetry of void, omniscience of absolute potential, and that resonance that encompasses all things and nothing,

Hear the high hat’s gentle rattle, the symbol crash, and the snare,
the bus engine, the ratatat-heels click, the beams that groan and swell with the sweet-bitter complaint of stress, and pressure, and age,

Hear the music of all things,
It’s theory is the calculus of collapsing stars, it’s composition is the miracle of anomaly

It’s Jazz is the a-rhythmic Jazz of joy and pain, in the minor key of hate, and the major of love, the abrupt flat of death, and short sharp of life, it is the Jazz of accidentals and dissonance, it cringes, it cries, it screeches, it screams

Creation is paradox, impossible, the curse of man is his limitations, one cannot create something that does not already exist.

All we can do is re-order the words, rearrange the pitches, augment the rhythm, and change the title, repackaged, remixed for the summer.




A stream of consciousness pros… poem? …thing? Thing.
Humans, how strange they act this way.

Humans, how strange they act this way.

Humans, how strange they do that.

Forgiveness an exchange for was.
Love is an action only spoken of.

Humans, how strange they do that.

How strange, how strange to act this way
Should you laugh or do you cry?
You act this way.
Do you know why?

Are you jealous at the man that has the thing?
Frustrated by action, withheld by a string?
Does the journey make worthy the wandering?

How strange they do that.

Humans, how strange they do that.

Humans, how strange they do that.

To get worth from what your hands can’t reach,
what they can touch is the thing that you preach.
Mistakes you’ve learned from still you teach.
Isn’t everything out of reach?

Humans, how strange they do that.

Humans, how strange they do that.

What do they paint in their chapels of cope
on walls of illusion in the language of hope?

How strange, how strange,
they act this way
as they slave to prepare for a coming day
What, oh what is a coming day?
How very strange they act this way.

The strangest things I’ve ever seen.
and no one alive knows what they mean.

The Heretic’s Gospel

A little gift from mother chaos. A stream of consciousness that burbled up from some pagan altar of my own heart’s truth, bouncing and bounding as I was in the back of my old friend’s Chevy.

If you read this work of madness and find that you understand the revelation of  its rambling cadence, then I invite you unto the Church of the Moon, and the chorus of our cackle and howling assemblage. Welcome.

The Heretic’s Gospel

We are immaculate conception, fertilizing beauty in holy communion with the self, the highest expression of the purest acceptance.

Take heed, hearken unto this, sweet children of the effervescent dawn,
these are the words of the great I am I am I am I am I
king, peasant, child, matriarch of the covenant,
sacred femme-fatale, fatal loins of the holy mother,
blood, abortion of the cross chromosome.

Why, why, why suffer the little children, kiddie porn pulpit in the secret,
the Holy See is blind, and every chapel is a room of tears.

Face your fears, the million reflections of a mirror ball spinning in infinity,
the bass line heart beat of the true multiverse in union.
What dimensions will you ascend today on the dance floor of this maddening tour,
seductress, enchantress, priestess dancing on a pyre, picking up coins thrown by those without sin?

I say unto you “We are all mad here”, falling and falling either to the upside of hell or the downside of wonder.
You are the culmination of a thousand, thousand prophecies, the gospel of a terrible arithmetic.
You are the miracle of this so improbable circumstance, this chaos theosophy.
You are the light of the world.
Never hide.
Shine on, Shine on, Shine on.
For only through you may we enter the kingdom of heaven.



The Red Dwarf Sun

Then the swing sets doleful creak wakes me… from coma… to coma…

The red dwarf sun heats the mud puddled alleys to frivolous, impotent,  incubation. This is my world of day,
these are my only dreams,
no nightmares left to prey
on holy child’s lonly screams. I remember only that I forget. I feel just enough to comprehend the presence of feeling. Something is lost,
or something I owe,
something of cost
of something I know. I’ve wandered these gamboled fence fort-yards for time unknown, only of the
growing feeling of longing
can I mark these moments
girding moments into
soundless breezes
of moments
moments, but never have I found this door a-jar.
The planks are baked and bowing, arching, splintering. I do not feel the serrated step, nothing seems to mean enough to know. I move up to a door of semblance. The trees are bent into the shape of wind. The dried, thistled, lions of the field, horde their wares like secret platitudes. I move between the frame and door who neither notice.
This house was once home,
if house can be things.
The rust was once chrome,
these bones were once wings.

These words were once sound,
once want to things speak,
he once here was bound.
He here once was weak. He was never left of here, but it was left of him. There is a cold here, not like cool, there is a thing, or a some thing. I feel thoughts of things heard, the hollows that whistle if the wind.
I press against.
These things of wanting alert the mind of self, and…

“I am”

My legs of being move like baked clay mounds across a distance they measure and reveal. This orange place, this brown, this yellow, this black place. The double doors of shadows. Mannequins at arms. Soldiers battling in the kitchen greys, a civil war. Beneath the dust of other days, not this one I’ve been but differing others, I watch through smudging streaks.

“She sees, but she never sees.
He hears, but he never hears.
He cannot hear for bludgeoned ears
his bleeding tears
his wasted years
his wasting still          still                    still
You lie in plastic, your eyes painted green, lying, tearless to the wind.

“How dare you move in this place?”

I run, I feel the running, I scent the dirt and dust.
I breathe, pollen, mucus, the buzz of bees.
I run like I ran
and I run.
My legs burn. The sun burns. The pain burns.
The playground and the peppbles settle in my shoes.
My shoes.

“It all bares a name. It all reveals, dandilions passed my eyes.”

I fall because I must fall. My head blooms. The blurring world fades away in the dust of that place.

A blink of her weeping. A beat of her standing shame. A taste the earth, pebbles. A breath of pain and a nocturne of shadow.

Then the swing sets doleful creak wakes me… from coma… to coma…

Will Night

A little bit about nothing.

I am Will Night, I hardly exist, really.

I am a young Middle-America person. I have ideas. I have notions. I have strictures upon these things applied only by my own psyche.

I am in my current quagmire of realization only because disillusionment no longer seems to suit, but without my clever illusion to enrapture me in dreamy apathy, what do I have? Four white walls and rent to pay.

I’m just your average guy, riding the rails without a road map, searching for a home I’ve never seen, but only dreamt of. I suppose we all have our castles in the sky.

I am sitting on the cold metal grating of a bus stop bench in that lingering winter night, watching bus by bus push slowly on their way, familiar faces moving on to follow the day light at its breaking, fading in the distance. I am wondering which one will take me to my new horizon.

I watch the steamy breath issue from my lips, and I scry into the mists for futures pathways, yet all I see is pavement, until I look up from that place, garner the strength to let go of a moment.

I sigh and the swirling mists seem to join with the innumerable stars. A wry smile meets me there, and we sit together marveling.

I turn my collar to the wind, I tighten my coat against the present air, and my pen scratches against the tattered notebook of my wanderings.

I am content, if a bit cold, my muses whisper warm upon me, and I must tell you what they say.

I am Will Night. I am this place, these words. What little there can be.

I try, though I hardly exist, really.


Be ye warned!

This is a very dark and disturbing piece, it was borne of a dark thought that lives in a dark place. To be a slave to anything is a sin unto the sacred self. That is the deep base that resonates this thought. To be a slave unto self deprecating thought and process is a heresy, a heroin abomination to which far too many are an adept addict. Please do not complain to me about the explicitness of this work, you have been fairly warned and may stop reading now freely. Love to you all, and may you never be ensnared or blinded by the clutchings of these shadows.


It’s spines grow slowly out among your vitals, crouching in your inner ways, in the secret corners where blood no longer floods and thought has abandoned it’s recollection. You don’t know the hands that touch you, strangers crowd your house, they find you, there is no where you can step they cannot come. They tear away your garments and hold you helpless, and spit at you as they leave you castrated in the mud. You shudder and breath leaves in jagged blood soaked shards. Demons slither in your veins and you feed them from black ivory goblets your sullied flesh on polished plates.

When they laugh you touch your self. You shed the blood to lead your mind to the playground swings and the painted flowers that blow in the wind. The mass of black corpuscular folds puts you on the ground, bends you into shapes and infiltrates your design. Languish the anguish. Beg the bull whip. Lick the lash. The endowments of the damned, engorged, barbed, baited. Tools of freedom’s blasphemy.

How can the God of your temples forgive his priestess, his only? In his own house defiled. How long will you be enamored with the pain, suspended in the black with the bloody hooks that pierce your back? The knowledge of the attack? Beauty for vile. Perfume for accor. Knowledge, denial. Sweet for rancor. It ransacks your sacred and you give it your life. Those faceless slaves chain you down upon the rock, and the midnight birds come to tear you. Relish the ruin.

Remove the barb, my soul, I pray. Faith for the angels to hold you by each wound and keep you in the dark until you see it immaterial, ‘til the eyes that see your truth reveal the world, and it’s terrors wash over you like fire from heaven, leaving the bones to lay by roadsides smiling at the rot and whispering to the crows that nest in the growing grass between the ribs and the flourishing buds webbed by beaded silk, adorned with tiny bodies, snug suspended.

I see a mouth of pearls gaping in a smile by a dirt and forgotten path way. The virus starved, the sacrosanct corpse looks out, the earth turns on her limping tour, and the sun shines in the snow.

A Very Short Story

This is a piece I wrote a long time ago for a friend. She was going to an acting class and needed a pros piece to perform in a dramatic reading.

She gave me a picture of a thin woman with long, black, curlyhair, just past her shoulders. She was looking out over a city street at night. She had a slinky black dress on, a hard determined nose, and she gazed with a look of challenge over the nightly city.

This is her story as seen through my eyes.


Samantha Myer had everything she could’ve ever hoped for, a quaint job as a school teacher in New York, a tabby cat named Oscar, the smell of fresh baked goods lacing the air on her morning walk for coffee. She was a simple woman with simple dreams and she was content with that… or so she thought.

There was something not quite right that day, she didn’t know what it was; couldn’t quite put her finger on it. There was something odd while she pulled her hair into its tight, practical bun, and in the click her shoes made on the side walk, making her way to school, something deeper in the desirable, rich, doughy smells of that bakery, a longing there as she approached that building which contained all that she thought she was.

Her job was her life, it defined her, and she toiled so hard to keep its comfort. The functions on the board that seemed to calculate into the sums that never changed; numbers, more like shapes, scrolled and scratched into a pity of theory that concluded there supposed importance. Something was very off today in the life of Miss Myer, what it was she wasn’t quite sure, but one thing she knew, it excited her.

On that cold autumn night in October, nothing strange happened. The door didn’t open, the television was off, the bed in which she had laid in, each night at 9 o’clock for the last sixteen years was still made and undisturbed. Oscar, her tabby cat and best friend, waited eagerly for his evening meal, but this night, for the first time, Oscar went hungry, and just as Miss Myer’s favorite Soap would begin, a strange woman entered Hank Brosk’s annual Halloween party.

She was beautiful, curled hair, black as onyx, and a gorgeous Maxi Mara over coat, line at the waist left only enough for a shadow to obscure and entice. She wore mystery like negligee, and crimson lips that challenged.

They all stood with secret curiosity, gazing at this, some how familiar, beauty.

Hank was the first to approach, unashamed and more than a little drunk. He said she looked “hot”, not exactly how she envisioned her first real compliment, but there was something beyond his half wit stammerings in her mind, something lingering and dark.

“Sadie…” she said, “…the most important word you’ll ever hear.” Just then she grabbed him by the collar and some how this slender woman managed to drag the star quarter back down a hall and up three flights of cold, metallic steel.

The air was cold on the rooftop of the Lafayette Sky Luxury Apartment Complex, but Sadie was some how warm, Sadie was hot, steaming and writhing, sweating, doing something she had never known she wanted to do, and now she wanted it bad…she wanted to be bad. She wanted more and more, greedy with desire she couldn’t stop, she had been stopping her whole life and now she just wanted to go….. go…. go. And she did, and she did.

She would say it was all a blur, it probably was, she couldn’t seem to remember how she found the strength to hurl a half naked football star off a roof top that night, as he was crying like a baby, and begging her to stop what they were doing.

You see Hank had limits, limits she could no longer comprehend. He was all talk, but she didn’t care, all that talking didn’t mean a thing, she was still warm, and she was still ready to go….. go…. go.

Even at the police station, where she couldn’t find much use for words anymore, or at the court house as they copiously threw angry four syllable words in her direction; they all meant the same thing, they all meant nothing.

A few months later the lights dimmed in the not so nice places of the city, and women shielded there children’s innocent eyes as she bled, but she loved to bleed now, people screamed when she smiled, the smile of satisfaction.

Samantha Myer might have died that night, but Sadie, she was still warm, she was steaming, and she was still ready to go….. go…. go.