Sipping cider on the Saturday porch
while the bubbles and dust moats dogfight among the leaves.
      Paradise,
                   with a breeze.
Catching zees while the sounds of traffic and children,
water gun arsenals at the ready,
**** up and down the street;
the sing song sounds of birds as the flit to meet
on the cables and branches high above.
      Paradise,
                  the only way to ease
into the languid living
of a hot weekend.

Pacing pacing to-and-fro,
speaking aloud with cat in tow.
Ranting,raving,shouting,craving,
whispering a secret all hush and low.
No crowds to gawk, no eyes to peer,
just pacing, ever pacing, from mirror to mirror.
No dishes washed, all dust on floor,
sailing small studio door-to-door.

All pauses brief to Howl or stroke,
while contemplating going broke.
All mussed up hair and *** pajamas;
all condiments and no bananas.
The sunlight dim, the sea all grey,
while pacing afternoons away.
The clock tic-toc, the dyer sounds,
but pacing, ever pacing, pacing bound.

I have found the other ghosts,
who wander 'round these dead of night streets.
Who sulk and slink and glide
in suits and dresses,
torn jeans and tank tops;
in moon glow shoes and bare feet.

The ghosts who are but revelers and fools,
thieves and dreamers,
flailing arms frantic at the lights,
         all the lights!
Who bask in the sweet summer rains,
washing clean the night's gaiety.
The cigarettes and ***** and starry-eyed ecstasy;
crawling hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder,
lip to lip and promise to love.
Love if only till dawn.

Ghosts who hide in the street lamp shadows,
smiling fools masking their morosity.
Another night wasted chasing the memory of a dragon
only to return to their haunts' and fade;
decay under the sunrise rays.
Dreaming and scheming
of the next nights jollities.

The enigma of where's the money
keeps this mind, these feet, always running;
trying to use up all my cunning
to stretch a dollar to twenty-five.
To survive,
stay alive and dream of thriving,
devoting life to love and the written word
instead of handing the receipt with falsified smile
and a "have a good day sir."

It's a dream of saying yes I can buy lunch
and no you don't need to raise my pay, I'm OK;
I work enough hours in the day
to let me get by more than fine.
To not have bills
and food
and rent on the mind,
but instead be designing the maze.
Not running running running through it
looking for quarters in the corners,
yelling "order up!"
while watching others eat the entrée.

Sheets of white
come in the night,
a wispy blanket of cold.
They make me think
of a time long past,
when I wasn't quite so old.

As Gloom gathers, in oncoming night,
from hills to streets it smothers the light.
The vile wind approaches a small country town,
it's stolid shadows feeding off of the fright.

Villagers panic at horrific sight.
They cry to the sky to be saved from their plight,
but Gloom cares not for a beggar's mercy;
to it, these peasants are simply a blight.

With Gloom ready to strike, hammer swinging to smite,
many heroes step forward, unarmed, poised to fight.
Small and meek, but strong of the mind,
their idea's and spirit does give them pure might.

They charge home at Gloom, turning wrong into right;
their stand 'cross the land causing hearts to ignite.
And when Gloom retreats to dismal dwellings,
the heroes rejoice! Now their souls can alight.