Ah, how quickly do
Nights age & shatter - like old glass.
How short lived, the stars

the good old nights^

roam the recesses and the abscess of
our too small apartment in the the very
large, very long, very inescapable wee wee
hours of the dark session of the day, lifting
my tablet to inscribe/ reorder/ recorder her/
this one more in my personal history, with
rant, word elixir, a note to our plural selves,
thinking of English gardens drinking up my
water freshly flowing and flying to you, via
nighty nite storm clouds, or your rural falls

and white clouds cumulus do  not return, and I too,
as my mind ***** and slugs but all attempts to
pierce the walled in somber slumber FAIL.

The creative comes besty beast like when I am driven from my dreams to wakealate (dream+speculate with eyes open)
dream of our realities and the tv (she never
remembers to program to shut down), drones
on about some product with XL in the name
that will make the unsleeping walkers feel
so much-better.

but not, not us, for we turn exploratory and
listen to the humming, beeping, tiny little diodes
of Joseph’s colored coat, all the mini stimuli,
the lights that mark the modern blacker hours
of rhythm, even those who can’t dance, can sleep,
‘cept for me, for I am a tune disturbed, needful of
minding, all these a rhythm busters ghosting me,
as a prelude to a poem vision now freshly etched
on my mind and now upon your flesh, an animation,
of reanimated images of ancient statues, ancient
advertisements for fertility, the dream continuum
of our lives, beyond our clearly demarcated time
line, the human, gene based need to outlive our
bodies in-the bodies of our progeny are a recurring
motif…female fecundity,  statues, many cracked or
missing limbs, come to life and move around, wailing
with grief and anger and hope and desire

alas, alas, another ole good time night ramble,
amidst familiar places and new abscesses,
and I wonder, how am I writing this when both
hands cover my face, and yet I still envision?

Tuesday Apr 16
3:08am
(the year escapes me,
for notions of big times
are measured in multiples
of I can’t remember)

quiet high summer nights
waving off mosquito bites
and lips so dry
the tap tastes like nectar
a glass shared is sweeter, better.
soda like opal in the moonlight
should we order in tonight?
leave the window open. though it's raining
this is our little love remaining

A few throw in their Towel.
Some drown in a Pool of Tears.
A few fight life, like Fighters.
Others suffer through the Years.
Few string up their sentences
and bleed with words they Write.
Writing Prose and Poetry,
they hardly sleep at Night.
Fighting their daylight Battles
and waging a War with the World.
Their Words at times hold Promise.
Alas like a stone they’re Hurled.
Words don't decay or rotten.
I read them as I lie down in Bed.
For Others they seem all forgotten. 
I'll keep reading them, till I'm Dead.

i swear we're rarely at ease
with the way we push doors to new experiences
kissing on public property isn't illegal
but the nerve of the act thrills me just as much

parking lots are often not the site
for love birds deprived of merry lip locking
but we paint them red better
than an arsonist with a burning passion
can shade his buildings black

i wish i could watch that night
play itself once more
on a lofty screen just for us
while we do it perhaps again--

the way i took your form
and made it rest against a certain sedan...
the way i kissed you then
while my body leaned on yours...
the way we held that kiss
despite the bustling of the city night...
the way you looked at me
when we paused for a moment's sake...

i could tell you were so ******* high
(and im sure you could tell i was too)