Mark Of the Fawns

Stained holy the color
A throne for august queen
This vale of hearth
My elegant womb

The Yawper and the Mute

Niches determined by force
Like the gravity of breathing
And the sounds you make
when you dream away from me
Our hand clasped curious souls
crawl from their human cages
tucked under cotton bed sheets

My Town

I’m an erect middle finger to the puppeteer
In valleys full of folks sick of California
Doing their damnedest to make California here

Prelude To Winter

I remember the way my eyes fell
When she told me she was going away
There is only so much time for love
She said before making her getaway