Dawn of The Dragons



The Snowman

Notable Quotes


Notable Quotes

“Love is one of the most intense feelings felt by man; another is hate. Forcing yourself to feel indiscriminate love is very unnatural. If you try to love everyone you only lessen your feelings for those who deserve your love. Repressed hatred can lead to many physical and emotional ailments. By learning to release your…

No Place Like Home


The world was unbearable today




work with its fading faces    the bodies of those I share space with

           if I go away                   another body will replace me        another pair of hands that move

          like mine do now          maybe better                       inside a set of black latex gloves

          across cold skin             I wiped away the scarlet ribbons draping across trembling thighs     a sharp needle stabbed a million miles per hour              I shifted in my apron and closed my eyes hoping for sleep                       swallowing my pride         so to not admit            some kind of regret


         and there I was      with the smell of disinfectants in the air     rock and roll music through the speakers        wailing      breaks   verse   chorus   verse

         the hive with its buzzing sound of tattooing machines working for their pound of blood


no more     finesse


schubert’s 8th in B minor on the grey matter while drums and screams filled the brick building where I suck away at bleeding wounds       and my client looked at me with watery eyes

       it’s father’s day   he says

       with the windows to his hole      he tells me what I want to say

       that it hurts         I have been doing this for thirteen years

       I’m a professional       which allows me to continue through the tears


my father weeps on the telephone to my sister

I didn’t answer his call

he was a rock star to me rolling stone personified

he left us and I admired him for it

o father, there are no such thing as sins


keep rolling

while I keep rocking

  he left a few things behind not for me he just forgot them or didn’t care

            the wall on vinyl   dark side of the moon    a saucerful of secrets drawings poems

I found it one day and realized he had passed some of himself to me

for better for worse

I have changed

              I don’t know if I was wrong    I know I am wrong now   and never have I been so right


       Daughter, if you read this somehow–someday, know your father did his best without a beating heart

      know that courage was sought after

      understand  the brain malfunctioned

      and home I never had

        the 8th left me and the longing song took front stage



    psychopathy can be added to the list of things dismissed

    or, like I choose to say, low empathy levels


    fear with its fangs and claws rendered me limb from limb      a boy like a beaten toy

    lost and hearing voices suicidal under bridges drugs yes women yes and the void remains



     another golden brick in the wall

let us hope this new block does not chip


     there is no place like the void

     there is no place like the void

     there is no place like the void














As I walked into the restaurant, my lungs filled with the pretty perfume of jubilant youth as I beheld most seats taken and a constant chatter, movement, cackles and moronic mannerisms. The furtive femmes and the less-than-genlte gents didst ballet in their not so subtle subtleties. The only thing that impeded a jarring avalanche of jealousy, was the notion of such neurotic behavior already visited in decades prior by yours truly.

Must I share space with these slobbering sycophants, I wondered while adjusting my glasses and unlocking my knees as I approached the line to the cashier. Coughing and cell phones in hand, the herd almost crawled over tables and booths to capture moments dubious of merit; their moment was yet a moment to be, and for whatever reason, had to be immortalized and eventually confirmed by those not present. The subjects who were to be the confirmers, on an alternate and authoritative universe known as Facecrook, were having their own monumental moments, no doubt. Instafag, Titter, Mumbler, MyCraze, Chatsnatch, and countless other social media outlets awaited mankind with the gracious promise of unification, by ironically, segregating him with glowing small screens.


I exhaled deeply and began to ignore the veracious voice at my side, with its taunting words of trembling truth: “This is your species.”

“There is hope,” I proclaimed mildly feigning conviction.

“There is no escape. You don’t belong with them.”

“Not all of them are sheep.”

“Find me at least one and I shall grant you peace tonight.”

“The girl over there…the one with the image of a doubled theater on her shirt.”

“You think simply a quick read into Artaud grants her the integrity of individuality?”

“Peace is worth fighting for, ” I said as I approached her and sniffled at an attention-grabbing volume. “Excuse me.”

“You scared me, ” she said with black and long beautiful raven feathers for hair.

“That’s a great shirt,” I said smiling kindly, “it really brings out your icy-blue gorgeous eyes.”

“What?!” she said alarmed and clutched her electronic tiny savior to her chest and walked away head down, almost rushing out of sight.


“You are right, I don’t belong,” I said turning the ignition of my car in the parking lot and drove away as I caught a glimpse of the young lady in black locks–she was holding her cell phone in the air, while she puckered up her lips, head held up high, in my rearview.

Beach House


Sometimes the slithering song of the siren would suddenly wake me from a feverish dream, calling from beyond the village; summoning  softly at first, then beckoning with brute force, her melody a murderous madness pulling me from sweaty sheets. The ocean in the distance sighed like an exhausted god. Glowing and watching, the moon with its battered countenance, would light the way outside my window. Hands lured me out in the shape of flowing curtains. Seagulls faintly screeched in the distance, reminding me of the sensation of sand between my toes.


I awoke naked and nervous, feeling as if someone was watching me, quietly, in the shadows of my room. Beads of sweat trickled down the center of my chest, and my feet cold and numb. I wanted to stand and run away, and quickly chuckled at the juvenile thought. I walked towards the window and wedged myself between my two curtains of my only window and beheld the night in all its glory. A gently breeze lapped against my clammy flesh and a cold wave ran through my back down to my ankles.


“I see you,” I said quietly into the night.

“And I see you, ” she replied like the sound of creaking ships.

“Have you pulled me from my slumber? I was longing  for your call.”

“I hear you.”

“Will you sing me back to sleep?”

“I feel you.”

“Should I bring more than this aching body into your embrace?”

“I mourn you.”

“Why do you foreshadow signs of me forsaken?”

“I pity you.”

“But if pity arouses such sentiments with me in mind, shall I avoid this feigning apathy?”

“I need you.”


Wailing wraiths and witches  raptured, the fowl of the air, the crashing of half-awaken confusion, my skull, like sand beneath the beach, shifting its rippled shape as if another set of hands did call. An enticing elegance of all the things behind those shadows–shadows that must surely sing our deaths.


“I am coming to you,” I bellowed as I pressed on naked on cool sands.


“I know you are.”


“Will you envelop me between the rocks again?”


“Why would tonight be any different?”







Black Lantern


She sat against the window with that old, tattered book in her hand; her mother’s dress, now hers, finally, folded and draped much like a Victorian nightmare, hissing as she situated herself from time to time. The pearl earring her father had given her for her seventh birthday dangled and cast a small shadow upon her neck due to the setting sun. The darkling thrush swirled and sang, chased each other with dips and dives; they seemed to supply the somber symphony for her evening musings. Quiet and still, quotidian and tenacious in her spell as she sat like a sphinx beholding beyond the bathos that the dusk delivered.


“Do you think one day a book can be a single page, mother? she asked gently while her index finger fiddled with her left earring.

“A single page? That would be no book at all, darling. Wouldn’t that be more like a very short story?” she said staring quizzically at strawberry-blonde locks her daughter had.

“What I mean is, one day a single page could contain hundreds of pages.”

“Hundreds? Darling…are you feeling well?”

“I am doing great, mother. Wouldn’t that be amazing? To simply touch this page and another appears in its stead…and light could come from this page so as to make it possible to read at night,” she uttered with a tender smile without turning away from the window.

“Silly, that’s what lanterns are for.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“But if you’re going to dream–”

“Dream big! In that case, this magic page could show us Papa’s face whenever he goes overseas.”

“Hilda, that’s just madness!”

“Oh, mother, it’s simply fun to think about it. But wouldn’t that be great?”

“Did you…is…this another one of your dreams?” she asked hesitantly hoping her daughter would turn to face her.

“Mother, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose.”

“Well, don’t forget we have quite a day tomorrow with all those stubborn cows. Get some rest, sweetie,” she said lifting her chin unknowingly as if that somehow would get her to finally turn and look at her, if only just once.

“Of course, mother. Good night,” she said gripping her book and gazing through the open window and staring at the world outside.



With that, she closed the door to her daughter’s bedroom and with a lantern in hand, walked gently to her bedroom and undressed. As she crawled into bed she released a deep exhale and blew out the light. From her window she could see the silhouette of three nooses in the distance underneath the almond tree.

“Please help her to get better, Father,I beg you. Have mercy on my child,” she whispered in a darkening room as she caressed her eyelids the way her mother used to when she was a child. “In the name of the father, the son…”







The reflection is mine…always mine

I walk through weeping willows

past large homes

homes I will never live in


Sounds trapped inside

of people and their things

I want to say I hear their muffled cries

but you and I both know that’s a lie


These summer nights…smell of whispering suicides…in lavender and orange blossoms disguised

These fading skies…beckon to mortal dreams…to bid them a long good night


My reflection sighs…now older and at times hard to recognize

as I walk amid large windows

silhouettes behind

curtains resembling her summer dress


And the poem keeps writing itself

the hard stuff cornered on the highest shelf

I am asleep

enshrouded in white sheets


I turn in the dark in bed

and there I am

my face enveloped

scarlet spots small then spreading

moving slowly

so so slowly


Somebody wake me


Before I wake myself