February Spring

disjointed sun,

breezy strolls

where should be

lashing cold,

something broken

on an axis

rusted and old

false joy,

a gift poisoned

with a bad whiff

of heat damage

time slides forward,

a broken ride

swinging heavily

to an abrupt end

we keep our eyes sharp

to find

pockets of shade

to build our fortress

The Gospel of Swords

Blessed are the clear-eyed,

the keepers of swords,

by their bold blood

our lives are forged.

Lift our hammers

and our spears;

leave plowshare angels

their slavery

and tears.

Rejoice the future,

present and past.

As we make our history.

the die is cast.

Weeknight in Hell’s Kitchen

Down the dark avenues

where footsteps fall off of crowded curbs

to scuttle past the slow flesh night life,

the neon punctuates

roiling twighlight.

The pastel dusk

is our emperor,

ordering us to sweet sin

that tastes better

with the ghosts of old crimes.

Let us lapse

into madness

drunk on laughter

with old friends.

Let this all

fall out of favor

so these streets

will be our secret

again.