Those are the onions

Never erase,

                                                       only forget or produce.

               Procure,  or embalm like the Egyptians do did.

Those are the options.

Those are the onions.

Topple skyscrapers and walk through fire like the Egyptians do did.

            Hold the crystal ball in your hand, and it’s still only a bookmark,

Hold the crystal ball in your hand and your still in that same gift shop.

Hold the crystal ball in yours hands and your hands still shake.

                                           Leave the glass of water on the nightstand,

Let it cool down and warm back up,

Let it become your pet,

until you get a real one.

                and put away the bayonets!

and the first hieroglyphics will be misinterpreted even still,

and no one will  ever mistake the back of a cereal box for a bible.

keep still, the ghosts wont be able to see you if you are one of them,

                     keep still, your feet may not get quite as wet.

a new empire,

a new  movie star.

A new passageway,

A new crawlspace,

some sweet honey from a newly discovered beehive.

And your fingers will stick together.

Under those stairs,

                               It may even begin to smell,

for better or for worse,

                                          It will probably smell of paint

                                It will probably smell of spiderwebs

On the silver set of the gameshow,

               forget all the memories you beat out of it,

forget all the vowels that  you guessed,

and forget that host that speaks into a microphone.

and forget all those fluorescent  lights,

They are born out of the sun ;

                                                      The host and lights, and the soul too.

They will not get their own story.

They can take the stairs.

Forget all the different dimensions you visited,

           and forget all the tables you bussed,

Forget the cherries on top.

only Sundays matter,

only sundaes matter.

That glass of water is still on the nightstand, by the way.

Did you forget about that too,  you barbarian?

Is that even  the same glass?

Build your new castle,

Lay that mortar and ready the catapults.

I’ll tell everyone.

Put that glue away,

Put that ship back in it’s bottle-

I’ll tell everyone that will listen.

put away those bayonets!

               You can build those models another time,

 another perfect time,

                  because it starts with the bones and grows outward from there,

Like a dying star,



and then



                         There will be spaceships.

Those are the onions.




They came as nomads

They came as nomads,

and they left in swimming pools,

left in coffins,

            standing on the roof of their cars,

                             standing on mountaintops,

                                                           Only hours earlier they were

                                                      staring up at  the trees,

                                                              taller then ever now.

staring up at the trees,

getting lost between the branches.

They stared up at the slopes, covered in snow,

      mouths wide open,

                                                            expelling hot air and a gentle hum,

And they wondered where their snowshoes were?

and they wondered,

                          Where did the bobsleds go?

These slopes were white with snow,

and the rabbits and the foxes were white, too.

and the ash from the volcano was white, too.

and I can still hear that hum,

and feel that collective breath.

I know where the snowshoes are.

I know where the bobsleds are.

I know where the bodies are buried.

     There was no getaway driver,

but there was a car chase,


the vault was empty now.

there were tire tracks now.

I do not know what they were chasing though.

I do not know what they were looking for…

I stared up at those same trees, and tried to make the most  of it,

but the trees became boring,

(the mountains told me that)

and they would continue to grow even if I wasn’t staring at them,

(the mountains told me that)

                     up and through me and the nomads,

until we were all hanging upside down,

like sleeping bats,

                                                  or like sweet fruit, ready to fall.

and we were up there together,

above the attic

and the baseball fields

and the  spinning windmills,

and above the fireworks.

And we were up there, crying together,

Myself  and the nomads,

staring at the constellations,

                                                                                and the fireworks below us,

we stared  into mirrors, and we believed together.

we turned gold, together.



When I close my eyes I can see the lightning

Waves crashing  on jagged rocks,

attempting to reach the warmth of the lighthouse,

only reaching the base,

only able to grasp at the ankles.

The waves want to  climb that spiral staircase to infinity,

The waves want to climb all  the way to the top,

so they can dry off, and not be waves anymore.

                          the waves, exchanging gravity for buoyancy,

and the waves keep the change, too.

When I close my eyes I can  see the  lightning.

A candle lights not only the  entire room,

but the hallway, too.

The hallway, too.

The door of  the linen closet is shut still,

but it is not locked.

When I close my eyes I can see the  lightning.

An unmarked grave,  as opposed to

                      flowers being  neatly left at the door of the mausoleum.

But it is not locked.

Still no one ever knocks, though.

No one wants to see the skeletons  and the pharaoh’s,

                                               no one wants to breathe their air,

                                                           or read their newspapers,

                                                               and no one wants to shake their brittle hands,

 and no one wants their curses,

                                                                                                   or their recipes either.

When I close my eyes I can see the lightning.

An empty park bench,

as opposed to a crowded one,

there is still an empty spot in the grass, you know?

can I have my sheet music back now?

because the music has stopped entirely.

When I close my eyes I  can see the  lightning.

The road can be covered  in fog,

                but fog cannot be covered a road.

When I close my eyes I can see the lightning.

                                                 The sound of crickets reverberates at night,

especially when they can never be found,

and  weightless conundrums come at you like slow hands,

                              and you

sleep during commercials,

(to drown out both  the crickets and  the conundrums)

                                                                                               and you sleep during the best part,

                                   following winding rivers with my eyes  as they descend into puddles,

              my eyes, too descend into puddles,

My eyes…my eyes.

drooling on a pillow that is not for sleep.

drooling on a pillow that is not for sleep.

When I close my eyes I can see the lightning.

Look at those grand canyons!

Look out for those tour guides!

                                                          Watch out, the snakes are awake  now!

When I close my eyes I can see the lightning.

A slice of ham will always be more salty than any slice of turkey,

no matter who the butcher is,

no matter what the butcher is,

and some  staircases ascend further than they should,

and some fires burn brighter then they should,

and some firemen put out those same fires over and over again,

and some people light those same fires over and over again,

                    and some cats chase the same

                                           dreams over and over  again,

some cats will always chase the same dreams,

                                          and their  tails,

over and over again.

 and some cats…

I  can  feel the lightning when I close my eyes.









A yellow ghost if there ever was one

At least some mustard was left behind,

Scrawled on a napkin, an ode to it’s forefathers and it’s predecessors,

those who came before and the ketchup that would inevitably come after,

                              the bloodshed that will inevitably come after.

surviving surging waters,

riptides and tidal waves,

when the levees broke,

and the valleys swelled,,,,,,,,

tiptoeing around the bedrock and the limestone,

                                                                                      Cruising in limousines instead,

Swimming with the mermaids, and then declining their dinner invitation.

the pointed silverware,

the painted silverware,

the only treasure here,

That stick up like blades of  newly sown grass, or like newly minted  tombstones,

or swords thrust into  the earth.

the bloodshed that will inevitably come after.

A fistful of fresh clay, falls in between careful fingers.

A yellow ghost if there ever was one,

spinning yellow webs in the yellow corner of the yellow room,

A yellow talisman,

blessed by yellow empires,

forged in yellow fire,

forged in yellow fire,

Practicing calisthenics, like  the wildflowers that blow with passing cars,

moving side to side  shortly after knee surgery,

A hula dancer, glued to a dashboard, along with a prayer,

                                   …and a doctors note

glowing like a firefly,

retracting like a piston,

crisping like a piece of toast left too long.

looking well past today, with the help of a spyglass,

The crystal ball was used to make a chandelier, so we could see.

looking directly into the labyrinth, no minotaur in sight,

and a clock steadily ticking…


The screams at the end

The screams at the end are my favorite part,

A park bench in the wintertime,

Complete with the appropriate music and jingling bells,

A flock of pigeons

waiting to become                                                    friendly,

waiting to become                                                           fed,

welcome to the fold.

The branches of a nearby tree slowly bending to the weight of the snow,

not under the weight of birds,

reaching towards the ground,

instead of towards the  sun,

desperately trying to pick up scraps leftover from thanksgiving,

or fallen apples or baseballs or whatever is within striking distance,

Trying to make a Christmas dinner out of nothing but

sleeping vampires and silver bullets,

with no cider to keep us warm.

with no chairs to keep us upright.

                         with no place for our swinging hands.

Our ghostly hands.

Our heavenly hands.

Eventually all the snow will  fall, on top of more snow,

and that snow will be

colder now that it is further from the hot air from above,

Further from all  the weather balloons

and the exploding artillery shells,

and the  stranded astronauts beyond even them

and everything else beyond that.

Beyond them.

colder now that it is further from the truth,

better now that is with more snow,

snow more like itself.

                                                              smoke in another life.

In a wisp, it is gone.

Passing through cracks in a window,

                                                             and passing through already vacant towns,

Kicking in the doors to saloons where

No pianos are playing.

No pianos are playing.

There is no one dancing.

This can all be seen from the balcony.

                                      Arms crossed, and barely breathing,

but man,

what a smile.

And those screams,  at the end,

Those screams, too.


like some crows do

Striving to fly,

In a straight line,

      like some crows do,

                 like some crows do,

Walking through a desert, and gaining nothing,

                             Especially traction

                            Except traction

While your pockets fill up with sand and birds that are flying away from winter,

They will bounce around for awhile, but then they will go to sleep.

Your mouth still is singing though,

your mouth is always singing,

Singing about how the sun is shining a little too brightly,

                                               Singing about Atlantis and the rest of

Walking through a jungle, and gaining nothing.

knifing through these jungles,

Swinging on vines and drinking from waterfalls,

Listening to the sound of home-runs being hit, in these jungles.

On radios that are not in these jungles.

on radios you do not even own,

staggering while doing so,

                           limping towards civilization,

towards all the towers and the lights and the empty buildings, and the campfires,

a spring in your step now,

still striving to fly in a straight line,

                                                                               Not quite flying in a straight line,

 like some crows do,

                    like some crows do,



A picture of a man getting a haircut

Actually stuck in the tar pits for once,

                        The floor of a mobile home,

                 littered with yellowing magazines,

& dinosaur bones

and  textbooks regarding mythology

Complete with the most beautiful pictures of medusa,

And still no one was turned to stone,

and instruction manuals to children’s toys,

Lost in the mud long ago,

Left alone to be consumed by the snakes,

All this literature, still

Higher definition then  the paisley couch on which everyone sits ,

that is slowly coming undone.

                                                                                                                    Slowly turning to stone,

 and almanacs,

so many almanacs.

But the picture is still missing,

All of this,

The bones and the literature and the magazines

all  bound for a dumpster fire,

Instead of a funeral pyre,

Narrowly avoiding the luxury of being burned  and subsequently  evacuated excavated-

under the cover of moonlight.

By an amateur archeologist,

and then

Dusted off in some hotel,

In a room with no numbers on the door-

              By a man with quarters on his eyes,

By that same amateur archeologist,

Who is now

A gambler  at the booking window-

A glass window,

Which means their is transparency here.

There are ghosts here.

Putting up whatever he can muster,

Coins, and chips  and shell casings and tubes of lipstick,

Pushing the entire avalanche towards

The man in the plastic visor,

Picking his horse,

Picking this horse,

                                     securing nothing, but an eventual stampede.

A hood over his face as he walks toward the revolution,

Sand whipping up all around him like some desert wind has blown in,

The sound of

Galloping horses  and busy answering machines  fill the air

                                                                 and his nose

and his eyes and his mouth,

instead of the gritty sand.

Much better than the gritty sand,

Accompanied  by the light from a procession of torches,

Leaping over craters,

In slow motion.

The tar pits  clamped down like a hungry shark,

Taking with it  his shoes and his socks,

But not his resolve or his jeans,

Damnit, not the jeans.

He can still skip into the streetlight


carried  by the calls of angels,

but they cant hold on,

He slips through the talons of the eagles that have replaced the angels,

his neck is too heavy with pearls.

his heart is too heavy, also

thinking of that lost picture,

                      The picture that he drew himself,

              He is no artist,

but it was him-

it was meant to be him-

A man getting a haircut,

Laid back  in that big robotic chair,

Dizzy from the spinning,

Head  tilted back in a sink,

The thought of drowning occurring to him now more than ever,

Staring up at hissing cats,

Feeling like an android now more than ever,

clippings of his hair falling into the basin below, and circling the drain,

                      But he cant see it.

He can see it.

He doesn’t want to see it,

That picture he drew.

he didn’t know why he drew that particular scene,

A man getting a haircut,

Why he thought

A picture of a  man getting a haircut would absolve anything at all.

Lost among pictures of medusa,

             and so many almanacs,

so many almanacs