Light of the Moon

Light of the Moon

I wish we were happy
I wish I were content
If I had a ton of money
and our possessions were scant
We’d roam the country
and live in a tent
We’d wander and wonder
and call noplace our home
Free little birds
with time of our own
We’d head north in the summer
and south come the snows
Chased by the weather
laughing at our toes
We’d sing and we’d dance
and compose our own tune
just you and me, babe—
that dark silhouette
in the light of the moon

Image courtesy of susan-lu4esm via

Single Sentence Stories 001

From The Gruesome Inevitabilities Collection, a dying work in progress.

Ghost Train

Hell-bound; stripped, scorched, and shackled flesh to blistering flesh with the only ruckus besides our rattled respiration is the rumbling rails beneath our feet.

All rights, wrongs, and indifferences reserved to the death

Image courtesy of ArtTower via

Haiku 004

Blood flows a river
Behind the slaughterhouse walls
Sharp knives, stony lies

Most everyone has a polite, euphemistic idea of what happens inside a slaughterhouse. Someone summed it up nicely, animals go in alive and whole and come out chopped up in little pieces, and somehow, somewhere in between, people believe something humane happened.

Euphemistic, as in self-delusion.

Read more

The Valley of Promise

Vast, the Valley of Promise.

Narrow the promontory we stand.

To the left and to the right and far into the distance, a harsh, unforgiving span spreads profound with uncompromising daggers stabbed deep in the blood-stained realms.

A frigid, frightful moon injects the slumbering gloom with Death’s blue hue.

Biting winds swirl around, growling like angry, rabid wolves. Read more


As the christening poem to Raven’s Head Stew, I offer a revised version of an old favorite. More fitting each day than when I first penned it. I called it, Narrative.

Narrative is the Spider
—Vile venomous divider

We, the flitting butterflies
Beguiled by its web of lies