He drank from the waters of Lethe, collecting forgetfulness.
Kneeling, with two halves now whole, the waters of old blight
rushed onto his young lips. Dripping down the arms of blissfulness,
fell droplets that bore unequal sums of dark and bright
made for no man to delight.

Without voice, without gestures of any human hope,
the shape of who I presumed to know, beckoned me alone.
A familiar face, of who the world had played their final note
stood there, in full starkness, with a prime never known
to a bolder man ever sown.

There I stood, a guilt-full soul, hoping to speak to the dead.
Across from the waters of which man cannot chose to row,
did he bid me to cross, for there were words to be said.
The earthly flesh, stuck to its dogma, forbid the show,
but ever more did the desire grow.

Conviction condemned rationale; the careless body obeyed
and started the chain. With a willing heart, love would be set loose.
The trinity of fate took heed, for a mortal they were to dissuade.
Hope abandoned the river, reality became obtuse,
for returning home would be abuse.

The undying waters filled my palate, inside they spoke
of pleasures once known to me, wishing to start anew.
Of dreams once known to me, yet each melted in one stroke.
The lost and the dammed watched pitifully, for they knew,
the underworld recruited someone new.

Let us join our sins in confession,
upon the pulpit, we shall declare our intention.
There is no fear without reason, nor insult that meant no injury.
We are but a feeble thing, all flesh and bones,
but in this I find solace, for I do not wish to die alone.

Join me, along the fertile wastes of unknown paths,
where the one above, looks solemnly at our past.
There is no need for concern, you are not the first to make injury.
He knows ye well, he knows ye fully, do not bother
with the thoughts of your unwilling father.

Do you care to join me, one more time?
The fruit awaits, hanging and falling, waiting for the divine.
There is no reward without sacrifice, nor sacrifice without injury.
Bare the knowledge of the speaking mind.
Logos is thy name, never known prior to humankind.

Join me once again, o’ enlighten one, full of drought.
Seeker of truth, seeker of evil: Seek your man, he of little doubt.
Today, they join in sin and in shame; humanity has begun its injury.
The maker is made by his making. This is what ye should know prior,
for I feel no shame. To spite and conspire is my only desire.

These words, expressive and
well-meant as they are,
never satisfy.
A craving for more is there,
locked inside a dark room
where all ambition lies,
all potential.
It does not deserve to be
caged down like a dangerous
entity that could disbalance
my state of being.
No, it is there because of me,
because of fear.
Fear of the unknown,
of the potential within the unknown.

A mental chain that runs tight
all around the surface,
limiting the possibility of success,
cementing the possibility of failure.
It is all imaginary, no more real than
a dream that entices to where danger lies.
And yet, there it is,
nudging,
pecking,
persuading,
winning.

God, he looks finished.
Why bring me to watch
Someone shrink like that?
He was happy once,
when effort was needless.
Bring in the bread, yes, yes,
that’s all that was needed.
But, it’s never enough, no, no,
it will never be.
Effort breeds passion,
idleness—contempt.

Guess it’s too late for him.
Now, he lives in an empty nostalgia,
alone to soak in his reminiscence
of what were then his golden years.
She doesn’t see it,
maybe she doesn’t want to,
God knows I don’t want to.
But, it’s hard to look away,
that beer belly stuck
into his skinny frame
makes him seem like a rope
with a knot in the middle.
I wonder if he cares–
if anyone cares.

Time floats where two naked souls meet.
There is no concern for
what should proceed nor should it.
I had dreamed of this moment
once or twice before,
but I could never imagine the
heavy air, our damp bodies
and that scent – that godly scent.
Now, a figure stands next to me,
Its tired breathing blends into mine
and I take it as my own such as
I know it to be.
My eyes roll to the ceiling, looking
for some truth among the fantasy.
Will I be lifted and taken away?
God knows this moment is too sweet
for a person like me.
Do I deserve this?
What makes me worthy?
Amid the contemplation of
my despair, her sweaty hand rubs its
fingers across my bare chest.
She kisses me on the cheek and these
questions –
they don’t seem so important now.

Every Friday I sit on my balcony.
At 8:00 PM the show starts.
The dark slim dame makes her way
through the stage with shadow-like steps.
Her figure starts a Tchaikovsky composition
while I patiently sit silent on my chair.
A sudden play of the violin enters the stage,
its sober sound accompanied by a high-pitched
clarinet.

Fingers on a harp are heard subsequently,
transforming the night into a frozen wonderland.
The moves she makes are psychedelic, leaving
shadowy smoke trails to follow her body
as she slides across the stage.
Sly smile present.
Her veiled feet tap lightly on the floor with
the grace of black swan in a lake.
Nothing stops her.

Finishing her first act, she moves away
from the stage and changes the track.
Deafening bongs of a cathedral bell
overwhelms the small venue.
A rifting Fender and the banging of drums
quickly give the rise of the next performance.
The dark silhouette returns, her feet tapping
harder while she flings her arms and drops them
for a windmill strum.
Never the conformist, the star moves to the
upper stage.
She lets out a lurid scream,
promising black sensations
to the crowd as she rifts away hell’s bells
for the night.

The mood changes, mellow tones take us
to the past.
Soft vibrations of a saxophone fill the smooth air.
A double bass follows suit, signaling the rest
of the band to start the show.
My darling is waiting.
She grabs the ribbon microphone, her black
sequin dress glistening across the ball room.
Ruby on her lips, she puckers them and
blows a kiss to the audience.  
It’s April in Paris tonight, my lover knows it.  
“Duh-be-duh-be-dee zoot zoot zu.” her jeweled
petals sing while she flings her index finger back
and forth.
All eyes are on my jazz girl, she is Fitzgerald
come again on a snowy canvas.

The song comes to an end and she flawlessly
bows for a standing ovation.
From my booth, I mimic clapping hands.
The wary neighbor giving me the stink eye.
What would she know about fine art?
The silhouette makes her way out of the room,
her each step breaking my heart.  
I say my goodbyes, pickup my binoculars from
the metal railing and wait patiently
for her next show.