July 31, 2015

House of Sand

Someone said
you might still be here,
that I could find you
in my dreams,
but no matter
where I look,
you aren't there,
leaving just
the usual traces:
a faint scent,
a fleeting figure
in a broken mirror,
with my outstretched hand,
never to know
how far I'd go
to hold you
in your house
of sand.

July 28, 2015


We cover our garden
with thin white gauze,
shading the cacti
during summer,
when each plant
seeks the sun
with blind obedience,
used to being left alone,
testing their spines,
in fending off
the meddling hand.
Now, they're all arranged,
watered and weeded,
until they've grown
more like us,
worshiping the nearest
rising star,
acquiring a taste
for manicured land.
Shaded from a too bright
light, they've found
their place
to make a stand.

July 25, 2015


I hear you sometimes
in old country songs:
Patsy, Alison,
and Emmylou,
all passed through
the same school
as you, 
the prettiest girl
I ever knew.
With infinite
craft and sullen art,
you easily softened
the hardest heart,
only to send them packing
a thousand times.
Still, I'm sorry
you no longer
have use for me,
like before;
you always said,
I'd be back
for more.

July 21, 2015

Happy Hour

None of my old friends
come here anymore,
their bar stools taken
by others, who eye themselves
in the same big mirror,
telling the bartender
how important they are,
only their names
have been changed
to protect us all.
None of them
hold their drink well,
stumbling home,
no longer needing
a wake-up call,
leaving me alone
as in a dream
where I can still be found,
after walking out
into the sun,
knowing I wouldn't
go back for anyone.
I thought I heard
someone say,
they'd be seeing me
later today,
or maybe it was

July 18, 2015

My Blue Guitar

There's a deep hole
in my blue guitar,
portal to the past
where I muse over
the same twelve bars,
reluctant to try
anything new,
in whose faint echo
I still hear you,
like lovers having
a favorite tune.
For old time's sake, 
you ask I play
our special song,
suggesting how far
we might fall,
if I could
even remember
our song,
at all.

July 14, 2015


Tonight, at the street fair,
I saw the same faces
who had followed Him
as he bore his own cross
up the hill, each with
its own brand of pain,
if this bloodied man
might really return
someday again,
if the rumor spreading
through the crowd
were true, that He
was going to die
for me and you;
or more likely,
He was just another
something the Romans
we're good at tending to,
showing what happens
to someone claiming to be
the King of the Jews,
planting an omen
for the centuries ahead,
laughing out loud,
when another disciple 
was heard to say,
three days from now,
He will arise
from the dead.