The Grave Unknown

Unknown Grave - Graveyard Terlingua Texas
It seems the flash caught more than the eye did see in this untouched photo I snapped one twilight evening some years back in the graveyard of Terlingua, Texas. Well, it is a ghost town after all.

The Grave Unknown

On an unknown grave
a stone marks the plot
‘tho no name engrave

Livened by spirits of howling winds,

the forest speaks,

twilight falls,

night begins.

Near I stand tho’ distant mind,

lost in thoughts of memory’s bind.

Grotesque shadows descend to earth,

stirring fright with mocking mirth.

No light of moon dare this night,

fearing solace of ghostly spite.

Fretful in my frightful still,

expecting what shall soon reveal . . .

Slowly letters mysteriously sketch

by unseen hand a name it etch

atop the stone that marks the plot

of this unknown laid to rot.

Alas! The name bares to eye,

‘tis no other,

no other but . . .


The slivered moon drips light sparingly into this hollow wind-gust night.

Where ocean rolls reflect a smattering of stars through the froth of white-capped waves; waves beating the rocky shore, mercilessly–

to rhythm I can bear no more.

Here I stand, bemused, a demonic grin diffused across my face.

The .38 by my side, my finger rapidly tapping the trigger; nervously, lightly. The last unspent round waits patiently, in its chamber.

Words, my words, lay dying beside me–their love, never true.

Behind me the forest rages its violent protest, seemingly angered by my crime,

as my weak and withering, dying words fail me, now for their last time.

No more shall their nuance sow ambiguity.

No more shall their dubiety betray me!

Let the swell dilute them,

mute them.

Take them!

For though I only confused them, misused them, and abused them,

they never, never truly understood me,

nor I them.

Alas, the sirens’ call–distant across the mountain–marks my time.

The last round waits,

for my last . . .


The time is one thousand years and a day from the day. Deep underground in the labyrinth of the chilling bowels of the Ministry of Love, where the only other sound heard is the ghostly whisper of air spilling from the mold-encrusted vent, an amble conversation carries on between two competing personalities seated facing one another at a rusty steel table, one with ankle securely shackled to the floor.

“Let me get this straight, you claim you are the entirety, the soul and sole of the universe; and all in it and beyond it is but figment of your imagination?”

“Yes, there is no tangible; nothing exists beyond the ethereal of my awareness.”

“Nothing . . . then what am I, eh? And how is it I had you arrested?

“You are a high ranking member of the New World Order. A powerful, ruthless and sadistic officer much admired by his peers, feared by all, and whose responsibility, among other gruesome matters, is the rehabilitation of dissenters—albeit, yourself, your ego, and all things are but mere fragments of my imagination. And as to my arrest, it is but the result of my coming awareness.”

“Well fancy that do you. Then why suffer the torture of rehabilitation where you will find yourself before this hour’s end? Save yourself the agony, will you. Imagine me and this Ministry as nothing but harmless dust beneath your feet.”

“It is not that simple. Once activated, my imagination becomes a complex web of interaction, a dubious force that must run its course. I neither have, nor desire control of events as they advance to end time, an ultimate that I cannot foresee. But I assure you, I am the one who created all things. And I will be the one who destroys you, everyone, and everything with it. All will simply vanish as though nothing had ever been, when the time comes.”

“When the time comes, is it? But not before our little soirée in room 101, I trust.”

“What must be must be.”

“Yes well, explain to me why it must be.”

“Because I am God, and I am fucking bored to eternity!”