Steak dinner
perfectly cooked.
impeccable presentation.
one single bead of sweat
on her forehead.

boys, when done, get up
from the table
before her.
kiss her thank you
(make it a tradition).

clear the table.
pour her a glass and lead
her to the sofa.
leave the kitchen spotless
for her. every grain on the
cutting board;

one of her beads.
nothing is holier than one
that feeds another.
season gratitude with
effort.

it isn't rocket chivalry.
it should go
without
saying.

Torn was the fabric of our
painful pasts.

torn by shots fired from heart
to heart, ricocheting between

bruises and disappointments,
then wedging themselves between

ribs, to rest and incapsulate.
I run my asking fingers across

your entry wound.
we did this to ourselves.

torn to pieces, the drapes between
us and The Holiest of Heavens.

let us never cease fire.
empty your every clip;

beautiful, beautiful
bullets.

As I drove closer
I could feel the pulse
Move through my body.

My heartbeat fluttered
Knowing it was near;
Family, friends, home.

The sound of her voice when
she finally calls.
the sound of the night as it
giggles and falls.

the sight for these eyes that are
bloodshot and sore;  
the sight of her eyes, saying
lonely no more, that

hold me with gazes across
any space, that trace this old face,
holding smiles in their place.
the holding she does with her arms

as I drift into slumber and sleep,
can both cradle and lift any man's
manly heart needing comfort and
rest. they keep any secret and

stand any test. I am drunk on her
skin, I am high on her smell. I am
demon in Heaven, she's angel in
Hell.

now fallen has night, and it fell on
its head. its lack of awareness  
envelopes our bed.
drifting off first, as so often I do.

it's the day's final words:
-I love you.
-I love *you.

And when you
            love someone;

their name
begins
to sound like
a song that
never leaves
       your
            head.


-Andrew Durst.

Staring a hole in the
seat in front of me.
even the mornings are night
in winter,

so far from the summer nights
when the sun barely dips
below the
horizon.

finally a film of powder snow
with tire marks from
other busses whisper
Norwegian winter,

and a far deeper, crisper cold
will feel like breathing
crystal, only the hint of
firewood burning in

nearby houses lends homely
comfort to the smell of
nature against whom a layer of
clothes is the only armour

between a life lost and not.
cold fingers. nothing makes you
miss a woman like the scent of
her face; hair;

person
on
your
hands.

My body is a temple and
on holidays, they prey.
"Come to the feast,"
An invitation to
forgive and forget
the sins and trespassings
of crucifixation.

The body and blood of
--oh Christ--
Taken by you, shed by me,
as this Holy wine saves us
from a judgment
between comforting beliefs
and cold, hard facts.

Love, Loss, Lust,
The divine Trinity that
brings us to our knees
in front of the altered;
Bliss-ed is he who comes
in the place of the Lord.