who will deliver us from evil

when it lives within ourselves,

hidden deep in the heart,

lingering in the corners of the psyche,

gently influencing our deeds

and promoting its own motivations,

so that lying behind

every ounce of good

is a touch of gray.



she asked if

i could visualize

an apple if

i closed my eyes,

and it occurred to me

i’ve been living

with my eyes closed

for some time now.

the devil’s in the details

the road

is dark and perilous;

i struggle to find

my footing,

now the moon

is gone

from my sky.

the demons

the demons

the demons

keep repeating:

the devil’s in the details,

and even though

their icy touch along my skin,

electricity through my limbs,

and the BEAT, BEAT BEATing

of heart like kettle drum

is dying down,

it will never go away.

and i don’t know

if i can make it

without the moon

to light my way,

but yet i must

keep trying anyway.


these sands desolate,

awash in the detritus,

the flotsam and jetsam,

discarded trinkets

from pasts abandoned

and soon forgotten.

overhead circle

the ravenous gulls,

terrible their screech,

scavanging the remains

til nothing is all

that remains.

but the surf,

aloft on the tide,

sweeps the unwanted

from its failed

second chance,

refused by even those

that seemingly refuse

absolutely nothing.


i wear my anger

as armor to protect

my suit of sadness,

donned atop

undergarments of





the raiments worn

wear heavy over time,

as the soldier within

grows ever wearier.

and in time,

the only solution

is to leave the war,

return to his village

and put the melee behind.

but the past burns

its way into our memory,

the ghosts and echoes

always in the corner

of our fractious mind.

and though you may

abandon the battlefield,

the battlefield

never abandons you.

lay down

i knew a man

who couldn’t do

the game of life


he filled up

on courage

by emptying bottles,

and lay down to sleep

across the tracks

just off the square,

counting on the train

to end his pain.

and now i watch you

standing on

your own tracks,

waiting for the train

you think will

set you free.

the man, at least,

had no interest

in surviving it.


Kicking around the tracks,

The tracks I thought I knew,

Every time I cross them over

I keep finding something new.

If I could only get my bleeding fingers

To milk the blood from my guitar,

I could travel a million miles,

Another almost radio star.

I struggle to find the words

As profound as the ones you spit out,

Maybe I’m trying too hard

To be what you’re all about.