old sulfur springs road

stop sign
a lilac in the throes
of burgeoning
old sulfur springs road
beckons you
(in the heat of this
spring evening
the smell is almost

you walk down the dusty
old swamp road
notice that in the
green shade of the dark trees
there is a heart of

sing something from OZ
(keep your spirits up)
sure, you’ve heard the
whispered the stories
from the lips of the
undead poets
and who’d think that
kind of thing might apply to you

it doesn’t help that
you never know what to fear


you brought a fist full
of monsters with you
throw them away and


let the white noise
wash around you
and now feel how empty
your hand is


when at last you see
invite yourself home
if you can
take your own hand
and walk yourself back
to sanity
on the dusty old sulfur
springs road

Profunda Verum Magicae et Præcanto Dilucesco

the Deep magic

the Deep music swells

violins, violas and machines Beethoven never fingered

joining together parts of my head

the Deep music sways

i see currents in my head

ebbing and flowing

gyrating bits of autumnal debris

in this clear spring water

the Deep melody

speaks to all parts of me

and tries to drag my reflection

to places of open sky. . .

A Small and Precious Gift

They told me not to go into that room

Back then

if the house was big enough

they would nail the door shut

rather than fix the floor

Took me a few hours to pry out enough nails

The door yielded to my persistence

Passing judgment on my effort

in a voice of rust twisted on steel

Sweltry and funky

A smell I’ve never held before or since

A palatable silence

The discomfort of room

My intrusion, my invasion

Was less than welcome

I stood in the same silence my cousins had always fled

I refused to. . . what?

Beyond cracked windows

the sun fell through the horizon in crimson robes

Lightning flicked in distant thunderheads

and the wind pushed against the walls

I stood in a silence

my heart still wild after hours of dust

The house shifted as it cooled

Somewhere a door slammed shut or maybe open

and something skittered in the walls

A star crusted quarter moon

poured through the eastern window

Fearing the coming night, I stood. . .

And something I could almost name became a nimbus

Something I could almost touch brushed me soft as shadows

Something I could almost hear. . .

Her face

not lined as it was in life

Her hands

that bathed my head when i was struck with fever

Her voice. . . dear sweet God, her voice

“Why are you here little Bright Eyes?”

“oh. . .”

“You were never one to mince words

Out with it boy.”

“Are the Old Ways dead?
And I swear she almost laughed

“Bright Eyes, how can you ask such a thing?”

“I am not sure I can feel the Magic any longer.”

“Such as it has always been

Such as it always shall be.

You have grown strong and tall.

I remember the way you played with kittens,

You were always such a small and precious gift. . .”

She sighed then smiled light back into the world

“The blood in your veins is the Magic I have passed to you.

The tilt of the sky and the riverbeds of the wind,

even the fire that runs the conduits of your machines,

these and more have been given to you.”

I wept

“Dear one

the Past touches the Future in the place where you stand.

But the choice of looking-glass mesmers

or the journeys on the Pathways-Beyond-Number. . .

These choices are your legacy as well.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too little Bright Eyes.

I miss you so, but I have to get back to your Grandfather.”

And she was gone