The hour was late, and
soon to be later.
The minutes devoured the seconds.
Leisure was my antidote to a long day's madness.
Then I found her, or she found me.
She cast a spell on me in the witching hour.
Her gaze was possessive of me.
Premonition was her touch.

I know not how she crossed the room.
What mattered is she was in my lap. Summoned.
Yet, was it I who lingered, nose at heel?
You can't question the magic.
We are the agents of fate;
we are deciding and directed.

I could never be a marksman.
I wanted her to kiss me: I talked about our parents.
I wanted to dance with her: I romanced the weather.
I wanted a way to reach her: I reach for her thighs.
Oh, how we all wish the target would welcome the bullet,
and to my surprise, she welcomes.
My defences evaporate into the smoke-filled air.
I take her hand. The edge of her lip curves.
That's all she wrote.

Sometimes, complexity is a burden, and simplicity is freedom.

A lifetime of unrequited passion was distilled in that night for us both.
We danced in controlled chaos: not knowing our bodies, yet fully aware.
Time ticked backwards and forgot to tock.
I lost my tie, she lost her sock.
Giggles, the sign of a fermented joy.
The joy of not knowing joy, true joy, and then having it.

It was love... wasn't it?
Yes, it was. It was not mature, sure, but it was. We knew it.
We sheltered ourselves from the world.
Time ticked forward and tocked with abandon.
I remember moments holding her, sharing in her warmth as she shared in mine. A communion for two.

I remember rings exchanged.
I remember the first fruit of her labor. Our labor.
A hand so small it felt like a stick shift.
Time ticked forward and, then

Silence.
I don't know when we stopped talking,
but she was gone.

My tears, some semblance of oceans forgotten, dotted the clothes of my baby rocking in my trembling arms.
It seemed pain was my daily meal.
I faced questions I never considered possible:
Will she ever come back?
Will I ever love again?
What if I can't love again?
What if I feel this pain forever?
...
What if she's dead?

Our life replayed like waves lapping the shore in my distant mind:
How the upbeat jazz descended to slow rock tunes.
"Oh babeh, your lipstick kiss is foreva, it's the red rose ova my grave!"
Our cyclical steps matching, lighting fires in our hearts.
Our arms coiled around one another, as if we were falling from some hallowed place... falling in love is scary.

We try to smile and remember the madness when we're sober.

We forget the things that are important sometimes... all the time.
We forget so much that we become these chewed up, gnarled bits of humanity, searching for our souls when they are right inside us. Incomplete, sure, but there all along.
We have that hollow wanting.
That grinding hunger, that hot thirst.
I don't know the cure for certain, but, the memories seem to know.

Let's stop searching for happiness. That's like searching for flight. What we need is the wings. It's not youth, it's not money. It's opportunity. It's innocence: the belief that things are simple, because they are.

Innocence led me to Rosie that night.
Compromise in the face of difficulty stole me away.

It was years later that I remembered the pain.
Laura got off the school bus angry.
"Boys."
When I got to the bottom of it, she was in the wrong.
She dumped him... for nothing. Because she could.

Waves of despair bubbled up from beneath my present: the calling of the past.
I almost strayed from my resolutions.

I was left with the thought, "She's just like her mother,"
but I left that thought forlorn,
because the truth is, I raised Laura,
and so,
maybe I'm the demon calling the angels sick.

Maybe we're all demons.
It makes sense. We all feel we've fallen from grace.
The devil you know smiles from the mirror,
it wears your face and crowns you king or crud...

Starve it to death, hang it on your sterling bow and
sail for the waking dawn.

Her novelty has faded.
The stars hang back, distant ladies-in-waiting.
The night sky, their palace, is eclipsed by cities
Exploding with neon lights and grotesque trees.
She is too romantic.
Inch by inch, the black sheath is drawn back,
Revealing her smiling crescent.
She keeps a faithful orbit, and stirs
Blue oceans with long white fingers.

In her full sphere
She is a perfect spotlight,
Turning quiet snowy fields into
Illuminated empty stages.
She plays peek-a-boo, uncovering lovers
Gleaming whitely in the mouths
Of beds.
The beauty of entwined limbs
Exposed in her milky radiance.

She is the sun’s soft reflection.
He is never dim, and the black
Silk bag, a sort of corset,
Is ready to devour her again.
The wine is drained from the glass.
Her smile has become a slit.
The single pearl
Gulped,
Cloaked in shadow again.

You could never picture me in the pockets of my West Coast.
I flew out of your story and into another, and then
Even into another, always the phoenix.

No longer yours, but his.
No longer his, but mine.
Perhaps I suffered these little deaths to forge a heaven with him.

A king, he’d follow me to the ends of the earth, thrice over.
His queen I’m still too shy to let shine through,
A star stubbornly obscured by cloud.

Though before I complained of rain,
On the Island it never bothered me.
Even in the dead of winter it kept the grass emerald-green.

An emerald city:
Ivy shrouded trees; moss fluorescent.
Our castles were those green giants.

Siamese blue to denim blue.
Betwixt the Spit & Seabroom.
It was all I dreamed and ever wanted.

The only thing missing was the garden, the garden,
Sheltered by walls made of cob.
Or a whole house, the air inside delectable.

Tendril of dream,
Is a cinder girl deserving of bees,
Turning honey into mead, of wild things?

No. Exiled to a foreign land,
A barren land; the ghetto forest.
Those halcyon years now only a memory.

Ridiculous to expect the bald
Rocks to yield to a surfer’s paradise, of
Blue-green ocean. Long hairs cannot thrive under puritans’ eyes.

Green things tremble for sun.
For all the rain, I remember the sun,
Filtering down through the forest canopy,

Upheld by the cathedral’s true pillars
Rather than these thrifty spindles. In reverence of true
Beauty, all is quiet & hushed.

The birth of a princess may bring us back.
Pioneers, we’re still in search of our happy ending,
To live lush in nature’s majesty.

I know the Pacific is still out there
Roaring somewhere,
Crashing itself onto stony beaches.

Mists wreath those mountains.
The drums beat.
That muted boom, my thud of heart.

Golden coin gleaming in hand.
All his hopes took refuge in that vestige of conjured worth.
The man with no name would buy his name this day...

The empire's burgeoning halls pressed in around him as he strode.
They would devour him in this moment if they had not done so already.
Yet, why the empire? There are more docile things to tame.
Everything is the same for the man with no name.

"People would apologize for stepping on me, but they knew not what to call me, so they went somnolently on their way."
I try to imagine these are the things he'd say,
instead these are the words of those I know,
those that I can hear, see, smell, touch... taste.
The man with no name's words are a waste.
He leaves no footprints wherever he may go.

The steps to the Hand of the Empire are steep.
Some will climb it, some will weep.
Yet, the man with no name will not turn back this day;
he takes a moment to fill and a moment to pray.

His memories are so vibrant, so full of clarity,
like crystals in the light, banishing insanity;
his tales will evoke the highest majesty,
entrance the gluttonous, deprave with vanity,
they'll bite the snake and poison its legacy,
they'll quietly rake the fields of the mind,
yet each soul is weary, cold and blind,
when he is gone, they pay no mind.

His steps are strong, hard, fast
throughout the night, will he last?
This is no simple, boring task,
the steps to the Hand do more than ask.
They take from you and more than due,
they make you fight,
they run through you.
When the night is cold and breezy,
you'll find the steps are dark and creepy...

Of course, the man with no name bears on.
What has he to fear, you can't hunt what you don't want,
for the hunt is a thrill, and trash is pleasureless.
The steps are perilous,
they hunger for blood,
his steps are thunderous,
nailing thud after thud.

Dawn peeks over the distant horizon,
and what a sight to see: the man is still rising.
In tandem the sky and he play their parts,
so does the Empire, putting bodies in carts,
for the night brings the dead, so many have tried,
to climb up the steps and in doing so, died.

The man with no name treads a feat all his own,
but see? A trembling hand. The ache of bone.
For the man with no name is tiring, tiring,
even in the face of his glory aspiring.

He would tend to the sick and defend the weak,
danger and challenge and evil he'd seek,
to vanquish the rotten
and save the damsel,
but he's always forgotten,
that he couldn't handle.

So this lead him to this fateful day,
to this fateful place.

Just look at the sweat cascading his face.
Look at his knees, how they groan and slow pace,
his legs seem to jostle and wobble out of place.
Where is his strong stride? It almost seems funny.
Many would do this sort of thing for money.
Yet, he does this for his own pride,
and that grim determination, from his face,
seems to slide.

He collapses and the jut of a step knocks his face,
for the steps are at his throat,
trying to crush his ebbing life.

I've known better men
to have fared far worse,
but this man looks on his life,
not as gift,
as curse.

Who is more deserving?
More than he?
Cowards! Be gone!
Pretenders, flee!

What's this?
He props himself up with ease,
the fire in his eyes would startle a lion.
The steps tremble with fury,
they quiver with disgust,
they lust for his end,
he must die, he must!

"No."
He speaks!
"Not today."
The gall!
Don't tempt these steps,
the Empire's nigh trekable wall!
"What I want more than anything,
is to be myself,
whoever I am,
so let me pass, you glorified shelf!"

How strange it would be, to be there that day,
for the steps let him pass, without delay.

He stood in the face of the Hand of the Empire.
Glistening in his palm, the token to buy his face:
his full life's earnings, polished, just in case.

He sighed, "All I've ever wanted is to be respected."
At the cusp of his one goal, the man defected.

One day, he told me this tale.
This he said, into my conscience: burned.
"If you fight death for a name,
you'll lose all you've earned."

There's a penny for every sob story,
and a dime for every winner.
A dollar for the tax collector,
and Benjamin pays himself.

But you, my friend, are forgiven,
forget toil and bore;
where you lounge on laurels,
others hunger for more.

There's nonsense in fiction,
truth in law.
But law guarding fiction:
the beast's toothy maw.

You write the laws, my friend,
you are the fiction and truth,
you are the red hand,
you are the beast's jagged tooth.

On and on, the mercy rolls
Are you winning?
Check the polls!
Is it fiction?
No one knows,
but the crown drapes from your head,
to your toes.

Life worms its way into your moth holes...
99 problems; 101 dalmations: you do the math.
You plug the holes with your fingers;
end up with no hands to stop the flood.
That empty feeling lingers,
so does the blood.

Everything's shot to cheese,
but the truth isn't cheesy.
You beg for no mercy,
but you don't say please.

In the end, there's no mention
of how you were spared.
Dare to infract again,
only devils have dared.

Poison
Poison, dripping on the tongue
soaking in the flesh
crawling through the veins
possessing the body
reaping the soul
waiting inside...
waiting to be caught red-handed.

Hate,
a poison I know too well,
gripping my heart
sacking my defenses
and throwing them into the river.

Hate ignites my passion
turns lover to monster
turns monster to lover
and all the while
I drink in the crude oil.
This raw token of evil.
Its malice is like
the claws of a lion
hidden
waiting
like poison
suddenly they thrash!
Peace is cut to pieces.

I once had an appetite for lovers.
Now, I only appetize the monsters.

Are you patiently persistent, or persistently patient?
You are encouraged to be both when under the pavement.
Yet, in the world of the living, everyone's rushing.
When you blow jobs from the government, blushing.
When you smoke cars at the dealer, pushing.
Ideas laced over one another like a hero in addiction.
Pleasure locked in fervent battle like out her space friction.

I need a place to die where love is infinite.
Hostess: "Another cup of gin?"
Me: "That's it, I quit!"
Hostess: "You don't even work here, Jim?"
Me: It's weird, I know, but this moment isn't working for me,
I've got to split..."

We need to live in a place where you can't get addicted off of spit!
I don't want to buy pleasure, don't you ever make it an option,
do you like broken souls, so broken that the empty's rotten?
I've lost my nerve with this, so I can't feel a thing,
Reality: "Sir, we've been calling you for years!"
Me: "Oh, couldn't hear the ring... from where I dropped it!"

I'm divorced from this insanity, reality? Travesty?
I show up at bars, saying, "Let me out!" Bars of steel!
It's a hard sell to be sober. I'm sober, man. "For real?"
Everyone wants the pleasure: a jolly good time!
When someone's sober, well, it's almost a crime... (it might be)
Beer? No. Poker? No. Swear word? No. *******? Ummm...
:)
Maybe...
>:-)
No.
:'-(

What a land. What a hopeless, marching masquerade of: huh?