Poseidon’s Affection Object

The river was not like it is

today, drying up and polluted

with human vileness.  Ain’t no


one gonna transubstantiate a drop

from that shit show of water:  Depleted water

source for the great River riddle

on this planet. The river bore life


in the Eden

story, now the water feeds human

pestilence and nuclear waste.  This story is no


different.  Before any battles of man

scarred the river bed

made of vermillion and hate, an eight stone

egg washed ashore in the alluvial


fan of the Euphrates.  Out of the opal shell

from full spectrum of light enters a creature,

the great son of Cronus had never

once witnessed. A thing timid and sharp

shifting shapes from mermaid to scorpion

to finally form a mountain. Like any God

when confronted by distaining beauty

(it’s disdainful because they can’t grasp it, hold


it, make love to it because just as they get

what they desire it always begins diminishing

in some way because they always have more

to take for granted…makes for precarious


jealous behavior).  The great rulers of the universe


always forget beauty is a human thing

born from their transience and shifting

mortal flesh giving each other immortality

in the language of beauty.  The artists shall rein

humanity, not by myth made by them, rather

the process of creating.  She was her own

artist for her life. Poseidon stared

at this creature he had not crafted

in disbelief of its existence.  All his great


rage of blackest waters stood calmed to soft

lapping of shores on her tail too fishlike

to be of man.  Fluttering her fins

while widening her wings, I am not a part of any

tradition.  I’ve my own voice for others to hear so to see

through my eyes, and I will find water

for my parched

throat.  He doubted his own

eyes—imagine a God doubting—

as she walked away, her scales act as grace to slither

around her two legs walking strong strides

to disappear as the earth she strode

in the form of a mud horse in the rain.  The wind lashed

tidal waves to grab at her naked form losing

grip of the most perfect figure female

any God has ever witnessed.



Song of the Starved Soul

This life is killing off

the instinctual wolf, forcing her


to please others. She howls

at the moon, the guide


to a long night of longing for her

instincts to stay sharp. 


The primitive is being

Lost. The woman is now


a thing just stuffed

in some old forgotten note. 

The Stuff of Nightmares

Listen. The echoes of childhood are statues
filigreed with the filth of the earth.
The ground here is unhealthy, and the night is
Haunted. The dead just keep on working. 
Here are the sculptures of mostly good
dreams which did not come true.