he raises his hand
raises his head
***** a gun
and turns a key
he's not quite sure what he's looking for
but he can't stay here any longer
can't keep screaming into the quiet
can't keep gasping for breath
way out in space
he ***** a gun
turns a key
and he inches forward
he's desperate to find it
but not so sure he wants to see it
he spots it there
centimeters through the veil
mirror twins
only he can't tell
which one in real
and which one is an illusion
on cold reflective glass
the girl and the faceless thing
the nameless thing and the hopeless thing
he ***** a gun
and turns a key
and he tilts his head
and breathes
only he's forgotten that he can't breathe
so he chokes
and they turn
the girl and the faceless thing
or maybe it's one thing
a faceless girl

I have a graveyard of less fortunate
           Halloween jests that failed
                            to breath deeply...

Every year, I pick one, not so young..
                   but those of later age..
ones stealing the youth of kids..

They are past their sell by date..
                     Gooey centres now stale,
I do this for the young,
                I'm a ghoul hunting monsters.

I see past your masks, below the masks of
                    mistaken trust.
I do this for the young,
             Safe now your buried deep..

Its a night of monsters, but some are real.
                     But never fear,
            those monsters are buried deep.
Never to haunt an innocence's dreams..

On Halloween I go a hunting...
                   giving candy to energetic smiles
      but others I do wrap in the earth for keeps..

I chase fairies
I follow the flicker
I hunt for glimmers
Of hope for love

I chase fairies
I chase the dreams
The impossibility
Of you loving me

I chase dragons
Dreams too large
So dangerous
They will roast me alive

I chase flying horses
Cats with wings
Elves and sprites
All impossible to be had

I chase fairies.
I chase after you,
After your love.
It's not the same.

But impossible enough
For me to catch
I might as well search
For other myths as well.

See the owl in swift silent flight,
Surfing the darkness of the night,
In control of its black domain,
Its prey killed quick, no time for pain.

Don’t be outraged when its victim dies;
The owl’s not a mugger of the skies,
No malice shown when it hunts for meat,
It leaves alone what it cannot eat!

You may never have stood and looked down the sight
At the tommy buck out in the breeze
With the barrel on the side of the truck
As your father says, "Gently now, squeeze."

You may never have felt the kick of the ****,
Then heard the report with a crack,
Or seen the buck just scatter away,
Leaping this way and that.

You may never have smelt the smell of the air
After a fire on the plain
When fresh grass shoots are pushing through
With mushrooms, after the rain.

You may never have heard the kru kroo of a dove
When at dusk to its mate it is calling,
As shadows are lengthening out to the east
And the African night is falling.

You may never have felt the pump of your heart
As you slam the truck cab door
Then lurch on the seat as you cross the plain
To the prey when you're only four.

You may never have ridden with game in the back
As rain clouds blacken the sky,
Or heard the clank of the tail-gate chains
And, never again shall I!

A dog is wild like a wolf at dawn.
While the cat is wild like a lion in day.
A dog rules the night and the moon.
The cat empowers the sun.

Dogs are fearless.
Cats are fierce.
If a dog were to fight a cat.
Like a gun to a bear.

Who would have won?
A dog is merely a cat.
As a cat is merely a dog.

a covey small tan and brown feathered avian sprites
in brittle grass on desiccated hills hidden in plain sight
perching still as death will my close presence them excite
do they sense the ending that will mark their panicked fright?
I'll move they'll billow forth in the vagaries of flight
fluttering trajectory will intersect my sights
wild beauty convoluted billowing feathers ignite
ending in a tumbling stumbling failure of their flight
their camouflage plumage flecked with stains of crimson light
do they regret never seeing their progeny's delight?
do they feel a longing for more than is their right?
they will provide a meal for my family tonight

The hunter’s bullet lodges in my side
like the pin bones of salmon wedged
in the back of my throat.

My life balances on the border
between my favorite comfort foods,
and the blade of the taxidermist.

You would make me into a trophy,
gutted and cured to become an ornament,
in your seasonal hunting cabin.

Raw honeycomb, Caribou marrow,
salmon roe stuck to my tongue,
psalms of my home made flesh,

call me back into my survival
instincts for my sleeping children.

She who outruns deer & devours
strong bucks with antlers the size of sequoias
could not outrun the champion sprinter,

American made bullets.

But when you realize your rumpus
disturbed wild things, there is no time to reload.
You brought a potluck into the den
of a slumbering mother with cubs.

My teeth are agonizingly real
And my jaws are in your belly,
rooting for the lost rib of Adam.