I’ll Walk with my Dead

I’ll walk with my dead
with bare feet
upon red earth
soaked in blood
from victims unnamed

I’ll walk with my dead
head unbowed
there is no shame
to die inglorious
amid fire and hate

I’ll walk with my dead
lips a ditch spread
with grief and truth
they still haunt me
with waking eyes

I’ll walk with my dead
carry their sins
spreading their ashes
with every tear
in unmarked graves

I’ll walk with my dead
fade into shadow
anonymous gone
maybe I will live again
if you walk with me.


Up and Down

Between God and me
Lies a thin line
Of doubt and love
Uncertainty divine

My chest beats raw
From all the knots
Inside my tangled heart
I don’t know how to move

This air that I breathe
Carries memories
I taste them

There will be Heaven
Even if I die
But today
I breathe.

Mementos from Sufrida Street: Love is a Four Letter Word

“Love makes the World go round, baby!”
His smile was like liquorice in my head. I hated liquorice.
“Love’s also a bitch.”
The trigger offered no resistance when I pulled it. A gunpowder orgasm mixed a a cocktail of noise and lighting that filled the room. Grey and red painted a Pollock on the far brick wall.
One second my revulsion made man, the next, a crumpled dead thing on the floor. His face looked better now. The neon buzzing outside the room’s window drilled my head after the ringing in my ears stopped.
Saturday evening and nowhere to go. Love kills, baby.

White on Red

Puffs of mist swirled and faded with the gentle Winter breeze. Her breathing came in quick shallow gulps. As if she tried to capture as much as she could, but without the strength to hold on for long. She stood upon a snowy hill that oversaw a forest of evergreens, all dressed in white. The snow around her was the color of ripened cherries. Thirty bodies in varying stages of dismemberment laid strewn around the blood-soaked snow, forming a pattern that made her think of a dance macabre. She would have smiled, but she was exhausted from her duel. Now, she could barely stand; her right hand still held on fiercely to her katana.


“In the late morning

The falling white snow covers

A great sleeping hill.”


She remembered the haiku that her father taught her once, long ago, when still a child. Odd that its memory came now upon this bloody hill. The road home would be long and lonely, like always.