To My Old Friend, C.K.

They never believe you;
not in Vegas or Chicago.
They laugh at you—
you with your white shoes
and seersucker suit.
They don’t see what you see—
the mist, dreams, and darkness.
They can’t comprehend the magick
nor the mystery.
But you can, you proletarian cynic
hiding an Orthodox core.
Your feet may eat stained streets,
but those haunted green eyes
look forever towards Siebenbürgen,
the Bega Canal,
and the cemetery above Sighișoara.


Crimson, still wet, paints the asphalt
illuminated by a cold winter sun.
They have tried to reach him,
but it’s far too late.

In the grass weeps the woman.
An unseen snake coils at her feet.
Another soul to take
and another day to break

hearts just in time for Christmas.

Waiting for the Wounds

all left on the table
or tucked into bed.
A hand closes to a clutch
grasping at straws.
The breath stops, then starts again.
Eyes blink away the remains of peace.

This is how the ritual begins
and ends.
Day turning into night,
night breaking into day.
An uninterrupted meditation—
an impatient waiting for wounds.

The Sunshine Empire

Underneath the bright, warm imperium
is the empty office hallway.
Air-conditioned, with clean carpets.
Skin kept pale, eyes kept blued.
Work remains useless
This, they say, is civilization.


Is it so wrong to have a picnic
where a murder has occurred?
Is it terrible to tip back wine
while atop bleached Portuguese bones?
Is it reprehensible to worship the sun
without considering the ghosts?

Only the living can have doubt;
the dead can only accept.
Best to keep cheery
before the black hearse arrives

and the island sinks beneath Styx.