wrapped her arms
around my chest
from behind
locking her fingers in front
to keep me
from flying away

in my ear
she whispered

if you are looking
for a reliable handhold
you can count on
the clouds
for these skies won’t stay blue

wrap your hopes up
in this bloody bandage
i borrowed
from a dirty saint
and say a prayer
no one steals
that from you too

when the world
is dark and cold
covers its ears
to your words
turns its back to you
and no longer
sees your face

know this

the right bed
in the right room
with the right person
can be
all the sanctuary
you can wish for


Words and Image: B. Reeves

a crazy six blocks


i used to work in the city
commute in on the train
early mornings
sleep the entire ride
magically awaken at my stop
walk six blocks
from the piss smell station
to the office door
where security
had to let you in

a crazy six blocks

for fun
i’d catalog the shit
i’d see each day
here’s a list from
one of my favorite days:

one tennis shoe
on the sidewalk

sock still in it
next to the tennis shoe
one human poo

angry crowd
at methadone clinic

doors closed

half eaten bagel
in the gutter

next to
a baggie of used needles

transvestite jaywalking
the street with me
taking the time
to compliment my tie

fifty pigeons on power lines
sitting close together
shitting simultaneously
crap falling like rain

a small hand painted sign
in an apartment window

that says
“my inner child has run away”

a crazy six blocks

san francisco
was not without
its charms


Words and Image: B. Reeves

satellite dreams


every night
i sleep in the satellite dish
curled up tight
in its concave bed
people look at me funny
but they don’t know
it’s here
where i listen
while i dream
to better survey the heavens

at night i am unburdened
by the weight of shadows
crows always followed you
but i find
they keep their distance from me
everyone remembers you
as the devil
but you weren’t the devil to me

the devil’s not so clever as you
but he’s a genius of procedure
we shared his bed in that desert
watching time and him
reduce us
to the least interesting
versions of ourselves
for bullets
for triggers and bombs
until even bad jokes
and memories of home
died a formal desert death
following the rules of hell

every night
i’ll sleep in this satellite dish
curled up tight
in its concave bed
let the people look at me funny
they don’t know
it’s here where i listen
while i dream
to better scan the heavens

for whispers from you


Words and Image: B. Reeves

gunslingers make good friends


i don’t bargain
when the shit goes down
someone needs to run
straight at the shotgun barrel
and eat the bullets
sometimes it’s the only way
morning after
they hate themselves for needing
that part of you

over time the rooms empty
the cowards and lazy fade
and i’m left
with only the badass around me
those I’ve already taken bullets for
those that will take a bullet for me

gunslingers make good friends


Words and Image: B. Reeves



slow withering
beneath dark flirtations
a cacophony of grays
a symphony of crows
no morning rooster
calling anymore
to pull me from peaceful sleep
wake to the ugly sounds
of boots and bombs

my strange series
of decisions
made over the years
delivers me
to this corner
of the planet
a spectral desert
where grave and mundane
place souls at risk

war and god
religion and warfare
a perfect ouroboros
one feeding the other
one eating the other
forever and ever

you say
you don’t believe
in the devil
but i’m telling you
open your blinds
peek out your window
that is a mistake
i have seen
where the devil
spends his nights
and i know
he believes in us

a lonely grace
as i am falling
marking days
off a calendar
that i hope to see
the end of
when no one is looking
i cross my fingers
to meet you again
in a field of color
kissing you softly
among a warm and welcoming


Words and Image: B. Reeves

ghost chasing

crow ring

spray paint
the street numbers black
burn the mailbox
from the inside out
cut the chain
on the rusty gate
board up
every window
hammer shut
every door
fill in the basement
with concrete
howl at the broken moon
and set the lost dogs free

ghost chasing
is a waste of time
let it go
let it go
let it go




Words and Image: B. Reeves