When I wake up
I need there to be news
I need to know that what I’m reading
Is new to others and
Not just the personal failing
Of me falling behind the

Paper from pulp
From aphonic forests
Where machinery roars no warning
Where what falling timber doesn’t kill
Deforestation will leave lifeless

That’s not news to us though
As old papers burn for kindling
As we in the serenity of a stand of trees
Try to get away from
The newsroom blues and
The constant buzz.



Perhaps Giordano Bruno’s
Endless wandering was
Madness or maybe
His ashes found in eternity
The Fields of Elysium.
They must exist somewhere
But whether they’re our due
Is a different question.
For now, I wonder
How many heretics
Due wreaths of laurel
Have burned in
Floral fields
For preaching the
Greatness of God,
His mercy’s boundless scope?


Romulus surveyed Remus
The Wolf-suckled grave diggers
Standing spade by spade
Blades sunk in the ground.
The sun-tough corpse
Of the she-wolf lay
Bare carrion by them;
They broke the clay to
Bury what had
Needed To Be Done.
So many birds
So many hills
But in The End
What kills is what
You were when Necessity
Caught you. The Rise and
Fall of many tides is
Time; but in time nothing’s
left at all.


Today while I was walking I saw
Two ripped-off wings
Strewn on the asphalt
Like imperfections in the paving
Being pecked at by sparrows
Valiant with the greater having been
Laid to waste
Taken away by
One of the devouring mouths
Of time.
The saddest part was
The wings were still good
And I wonder why that poor pigeon
Chose to fly to death.
Perhaps quick
He was not quick enough.