…they peer into the mouth
Of this mythical creature
To count its teeth, one by one
They will be abstracted by the perfect angles
Of its wisdom
Jutting out like blades of white topaz
Between the gums
When they write the news story
Of its ultimate discovery
There will be more questions than answers
About its origins
There will be more why’s than how’s
Regarding the humble beginnings of a giant
There will be stern demands
Calling for its validation
As they struggle to find the right words
To describes its dubious existence
There will be more silent nods of endorsement
And secret handshakes, commemorating
Its miraculous survival
When they finally think they comprehend
The method to its madness
They will shudder at the revelation
Of its preserved integrity
They will be awed by the sheer number
Of sharp incisors
Lining perfectly like presents
Against the jawbone
And, when…

Gotham’s Phobia

It is fear
Of losing sight of your warm smile
On a cold winter day
Earnestly repurposing the things which
I’ve rightfully owned
That has kept me alive, all this time
Fear of being leveled to the ground
By your charity
That has kept me trembling, uncontrollably
Like a quake
It is fear of drowning in your onyx ocean
That has honed my craft of insolence
Flapping my arms at this blessed altar
Through a series of repetitive shifts
moving my lips like a mantra
It is fear
Of never being found by you
That has kept me bouncing off these walls
Lighting up like a pinball each time we touch
Inside your purple maze
Whenever the moon shines bright, like a sun
Illuminating the fringes of this mediocre cell
Casting giant grey shadows across
All that I’ve become
I realize with a twinge that it is fear
Of not loving you enough
That has kept me breathing
It is fear of losing you forever
That has kept me going, all this time
Rocking my spirit in a perpetual motion
Of forward momentum
Making me prostrate at your feet, willingly
Night after night


The bristles on the collar stiffen
As the collective hum of the universe
Settles between the blades of its sculpted shoulders
Suspended like icicles, the prickly spikes
Hang upside down above the barrel – like blind bats-
Fascinated by the possibility of a promise
Made at a witching hour
From every account, the bathwater is filthy
Yet, the baby is cleaner than ever
And, the yellow roses that were delivered
Remain frozen, anticipating a beautiful dream
That was once sold under your sheets
Your spindly arms creep – like a warm poncho-
Around its treasure chest
Trying to muffle its breath
But, when it finally stretches its pink tongue
To find the right words
All you hear is a cry – a sigh of definite relief-
Loud enough punch a hole through the gut
But, some say it speaks in a voice
So achingly beautiful, that it makes
The bristles on your collar stiffen…