The bitter cold came
quickly; it arrived on
the brittle fangs of snow in
October, falling before
Halloween ghouls or the
Advent of December.

We locked ourselves in
that Sunday, watching
it coat the sidewalks
while the little one
knocked blocks together
in front of the fireplace.

You sipped coffee,
crossed-legged on the floor.

And, I swear, no
August heat has ever
made me feel as
warm
as the bitter cold
that came quickly
in October.

I went there without you.
She first spoke to me in the Tower
after poetry and drink.
We discussed broken hearts
and unlovable souls
and how waiting can destroy
even the deepest of loves.

She said I was the lark, ascending
(but the ground pulled at my feet).

She was beckoned toward
a city halfway around the world,
where the markets are always open
and the oceans are always warm.

We still rise to the same sun,

I told her through a screen
as she traveled through
narrow streets on a city bus.

We still fall to the same moon,

she said back, shrouded
in the morning mist.

I went there without you
and I had a visit with my grandpa.
April may be the cruelest month
but October kept him alive for a moment
longer.
We listened to Mozart and
visited and visited some more
until our throats yearned
for water and for rest.
With another kiss on the forehead
he left me for Good.

I sat with Jesus again -
this time in an Astrovan,
remnants of the serpent still
stuck to His heel.
I asked Him to play
Lacrimosa for my grandfather
at the gates of Heaven,
to which He gave me a hug
and we drove back toward
the rising sun.

I went there without you.
I followed rivers to their oceans
as another after another cigarette
hung from the corner of my mouth.
I sat underneath a Seward sunset
and argued with God about
how I didn't want to die
and He kept telling me to
give living a try.
So, I met Satan in
San Diego, and we took a
walk down the Pier as I
folded origami.
I told him I was afraid
of death, but he was distracted
by blondes in bikinis,
so I threw the crane
into the water and watched
as it was devoured by the tide.

I sat with Jesus in Gethsemane
and asked Him if I had a bed in Heaven.
In return, He asked me to stay awake with him,
but the Klonopin was kicking in
and I was too tired to watch Him weep.

I went there without you.
Long drives aren't too long
if you imagine you are on a subway car
in New York City, sitting next to
a lady who smells like cauliflower
and a hint of grief, who tells you
that it's not as dark as you think
it is, Sugar, because you're the one
covering the light.

To which you may respond
but I am not seated!
I am floating!  All around
me in empty space is
empty space and no
light can pierce it!

To which she responds with a
chuckle and an offering of
licorice gum, which you
respectfully decline
because the taste reminds you of
your grandma, who passed away
in March as she slept
(BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH)
and left your mother weeping
at the front door,
hoping she'd come visit again.

To which the rest of the car
bursts into a danse macabre;
a movement over the grave and
into a place much colder than
underground.  They, The Wholehearted,
sway with their bones rattling
in harmony until they clatter
to the floor as marrow meets metal -

then the headlights
jolt you here again,
and you realize that
hundreds of miles
of lonely road await you.

I can measure my life in lonely roads.

I went there without you.
The invitation for Winter
was a blanket of fog,
and my feet were peeking
out from the bottom.
Winter breeds dread
and I coped by spending
restless nights hopping
from bar to bar in
hopes that the right Spirit
would guide me down those
lightless streets and lighted streets,
down the sidewalk on Madison Avenue
trying to make it back to 65th so
I could sleep in my own bed.

In the room the women come and go
talking of D'Angelo.

Black Messiah, not Voodoo;
"Ain't That Easy," not "Playa Playa"
playing through someone's iPhone
out the Bluetooth speakers
on the coffee table next to
the gin and the ashtrayspliff.

The Demon was brought
out of me by the Jack and Coke,
fire from my mouth and eyes
and the headache!
Oh, I begged, on my knees,
my besought hands folded,
asking for the tongue of flame
to be removed from my head!
That my personal Nephilim be
extinguished by the deluge!

And he left me,
as silently as he came,
in a puddle of my *****
on the bathroom floor,
clutching my legs to
my chest.

the boy watches as
snow falls quietly and peacefully outside, similar to
the way his grandfather died
in his sleep -
with a quiet dance, soothing and liquescent.

he treads through the cold dusting the frozen flakes fall onto
his hair and slowly melt,
freezing his skull,
chilling him down into the part of his brain that kept telling him
to stay inside;
to not speak to her.
"don't you ******* listen?
she is like a rainstorm that floods the rivers;
like a hurricane
that tears trees from their roots."

he cannot hear that voice anymore.

he knocks
as timidly as cherry blossoms
fall from their trees.
the door is opened
by the delicate hands
in which he used to bury his head and weep about
the loss of life and the lives that are
too lucky to be alive.
her eyes -
two jade green courtyards where he would spend days
watching the days go by with a blink of an...
eyes that met his -
clear brown as earl grey tea
and as sad as a child falling asleep
without a bedtime story.
he whispers quietly,
feeling his brain thaw
and his heart clawing and begging
for any scrap of hope.

"did you ever love me?"

"no.
i never loved you. i didn't even try."

I imagined myself leaving
someday.  Trading
plains for seas, exchanging
something loved for something
unknown.

And maybe it's the fear
of quietly whispering
goodbye that unsettles me.
Maybe it's the inevitable
end of familiarity,
like the sun's western descent
after a day that should not
end.
And when it does,
we all pack our bags
and say farewell.

Eventually,
I will trace new roadmaps on the
back of my hands;
I will find the familiar
creaks in the floorboards.

And when the sun sets,
someone will leave a light on
for me.

there is joy in this:
that you woke up this morning;
there's breath in your lungs.

I was never afraid of ghosts
before I kept seeing your face
in every mirror I passed.

The past kept you silent.
Locked you in a casket
and buried you in a pile of
faded photographs and
ink that bled recollections
across blank pieces of paper.

Now you are the thunder
that comes after lightning;
you are the shards of glass
after each mirror b re a  k   s.

The cathartic release
of weeping on the kitchen floor.
Hands on top of head, screaming

"how much longer will this last?"

Cue the banjo solos
and the violin swells.
Sleeping children in
withering weeping willow
high chairs
covered in creamed carrots.
Young cherry blossom lovers
shout curses,
shatter floodgates,
let tears flow;
petals are brushed away
by the wind.
Widows and over-easy eggs,
crossword puzzles and
sad irony on fifteen across -
"Murdered, 'Ides of March.'"
The weight of their fatigue
growing dark and heavy
under their eyes.

A waitress breaks silence,
"More coffee?"

A sleeping child awakes,
crying under the brightness
of the morning sun.

I.
He writes a letter
and sends it to her:
"My vacation's ending;
I'm out of my mind.
Tears follow after
days when I still felt
alive.
I never conquered Hate;
Love has been waiting,
just wanting some kind of sign
to trust,
(I never thought)
to hope,
(I'd die)
to care.
(alone.)
Please tell my mom this is not her fault."

II.
She writes a letter
to the one that she cares for:
"Tomorrow holds
a reason to live
and a reason to grow.
Days when I can still
feel the good things we know.
I can't wait to see you again."

III.**
He takes a taxi,
a young man drives.
Hope fills his eyes
at the end of the ride.
She arrives
safely with suitcase in tow.
He says,
"I didn't think enough."
She says,
"I should have not been gone for so long."
He is back safe in her arms,
without much regard
to the moon or the stars.
He keeps his head up and sails
through her pretty eyes.

She says,
"I'm yours and you're mine
and that's it, forever."

In the waiting room,
I watched two little boys
play with shadow puppets.
They transformed their hands
into figments of imagination
under the ghostly sterile lights
as doors swung wide
and gurneys and white coats
escorted the suffering
into rooms dressed with
pleasant paintings of peaceful woods -
placed on wall that have seen
far too many flat lines;
windows that have heard
far too many last words.

I fell asleep against
the stained glass that painted
the ground with colors that
children only see through
the lenses of kaleidoscopes;
vividness that blind men
only see when holding the
warm hands of their lovers.

I woke up to the bells
singing tunes of the eschaton
and the priest muttering
damnation upon the half-empty
bottle of Jim Beam resting in my lap.

"Want a swig?" I asked with a stagger.
"No," he replied.  "Whiskey is the devil's elixir

and besides,
there are plenty a bottle of Christ's blood behind the altar from which to choose."

stare at nothing in particular,
but they imagine hands that once
embraced their own.

And that nothing in particular
materializes into
everything those eyes want to see -

another moment to hold those hands
and look into eyes that do not grieve at all.

The fisherman tells the sea
that he promises to weather its storms.
The sea tells the fisherman
that she promises to carry him
to adventurous lands
upon her leeward waves.

As for me,
I promise we will be okay
as the winds blow the shingles
off our tiny, little house.
I promise we will be okay
as we follow the maps
and navigate the roads
while the radio sings static,
our hands clasped together
at your knee.

I promise that the rain
will radiate diamonds,
that reflect the gleam of your eyes,
onto the shores,
into the sea,
onto me,
and especially onto you.

We will find hope inside the clouds.

He says to her, "goodnight." ("I never meant to hurt you.")
She walks away from him. ("You never hurt me; you shattered me.")
He begs her, "I hope you sleep well." ("I am sorry. Please let me put you back together.")
She continues to walk. ("I am a sinking ship. I am an earthquake. I am a falcon without a falconer.

I am beyond repair.")

The clouds reach their hands down
and cover the mountain peaks.
They call the Moon to reflect the Sun's light;
the fog glows a golden orange across the slopes.

In a dreamstate,
we are driving through Castle Rock,
the star brightly shining atop the granite anomaly.
He lights his pipe,
his hands swipe the match against the book like a maestro conducting a symphony,
and exhales the aroma of Philosopher's Blend into the thin Colorado air.

Many miles now separate
us, from the Rockies of Colorado
to the badlands of new Mexico;
but his smoke rings still
linger in the air, among the clouds,
that shroud the mountaintops.

Sleepless dreaming -
Where slumber does not lead to
vision does not lead to
nightmare or wonder.

Unreal City -
Where each headstone,
covered in moss
and shrouded by fern,
sharply reads:
"THE HORROR!  THE HORROR!"
And those whose souls
still cling to their withering bodies
speak so placidly about The Buried:
"Oh, Mistah _____?  He dead."

Sleepless dreaming.
Where cities crumble into the ocean
and giants buckle at the knees, yelling:

"Shantih!  Shantih!  Shantih!
"Oh Lord, where is The Peace
that passes all understanding?"

We are the ones,
cast from the warmth and into the cold
where lungs break down
and hearts are left for the wolves.

We bloom in the chill now.
Like a hellebore bursts
from the banks of snow.
We have arrived
where the exiled
were bound to go -
we've packed The Tinguit Inn
and there's no vacancy.

And yes, oh yes,
we remember you,
tugging at our bound wrists.
We can see your eyes- -
your damnable dark eyes,
twist the chains around our necks.

Gendarme, what say you?
Where are your comrades now?
Where are the revolvers
you issued them as you said

"Just in case of an uprising..."

You know, son,
we have a history of
slitting the throats of our cousins
over a handful of stolen grain.

Imagine what we do to a thief
who robbed us from the sails
of our Mediterranean Sea.

Look at the sky!
The plateau and,
beyond,
our land that stretches to
the shorelines!

We are the exiled
from the Tinguit Hotel,
and yes - you will pay.

*Tu paieras.

A nightmare kept you awake
last night.  I can see the
dark recesses in
your eyes where rest
used to be.

You dream of a sinking ship.
Its captain submerged under the waves,
thrashing his arms
toward the water's fleeting surface.
You want to plunge your filthy, filthy, hands
into the water, but you see
the man's face as your own.
And you watch as your lungs fill with liquid,
your eyes closing like curtains pulled
on a cold winter's day.

Oh! you wish for dreams of the shore!
To hear the lark overhead!
showering its song upon you
as a lullaby for your hollow eyes.
But you are drowning.  The lark does not make a sounds.

It's not making a sound.  You are drowning.

I recall the rustic leaves,
and the sound they made when crushed
under skateboard wheels,
as they settled around the half-pipe
and the worn rails of Peter Pan Park.

Youngsters,
with their colorful helmets and their
better-safe-than-sorry knee pads,
kicked and pushed their way across the pavement
and pumped their fists in the air
as their boards reached the other side.  
In this Neverland, the kids wanted adventure first -
the tea could wait at home for a little longer.

But, as dusk settles,
the pirates emerge upon the asphalt shores
in fleets of tinted windows and loud exhausts.
These pirates, still adolescent in their own age,
bicker and fight until a hook pierces skin,
blood spills upon the crisp leaves,
and a boy - with naiveness still glistening in his eyes -
becomes another boy who would not grow up
in the Never Never of Peter Pan Park.

I see a girl
jumping from the Big Dipper
onto the object to which
the action of the sea is directed.

She takes flight,
with the boldness of a Willow Ptarmigan,
and soars high above
Palmer and Seward and the bowl of Anchorage.

She lands atop the snowy slopes
of Denali and carves her way down
into the withered trees of Ghost Forest.

She swims among the Aleutian Islands,
floats on the waves of the Turnagain Arm,
and basks in the waters of the Gastineau Channel.

I see a girl
whose eyes sparkle brighter
than Klondike gold,
and whose voice whispers more beautifully
than the wind that blows
through the great land of Alyeska.

on a 12am bus
downtown San Diego
movershakers and dopplegangers
dash across dimly lit streets
all covered in thick layers of shadow
eyes flicker in alleyways
move like lightning bolts
always making contact with you(r body)
eyes that move to the seat
next to you
and think only about
*** and *** and ***
on a 12am bus
downtown San Diego
where everything looks
better way better
when your mind looks
for a way to escape
prison break its way
out of your skull
beat you ******
and light you on fire
on a 12am bus
downtown San Diego.

we wake up in sun-drenched rooms.
we sleep to faint, nocturnal tunes.
and we roll in glorious as the clouds
with a lullaby of sound -

the sound of the rain.

we wait in hope of brighter days,
as we watch the tree limbs sway,
and we're onto whatever hope we can find
that sleep under these blue-washed skies.

we fall soft like autumn leaves.
we're swept on by a tranquil breeze,
we land upon the puddles and streams,
and drift away to bigger seas

to the sound of the rain.

The leaves
seemed to wither and die
slowly this year,
as if the foliage red
sliced its veins and slowly
bled out.
Autumn glows yellow
like a book gradually develops
jaundice and eventually
collapses into dust.

The possibilities
of Summer are gone
and Winter inches her
ice-cold eyes
over the horizon,
turning her gaze inward
as the skies turn gray
and melancholy falls
like a torrent of freezing rain.

I ponder these things
while birds begin their
southern retreat
and night-time darkness
arrives swifly,
equipped with
Orion's Belt as
a holster and
the Crescent Moon as
a revolver.

My feet seem to be frozen
to dawn's frost as it
wraps it's frigid fingers
around my ankles -
shackles fitting for a
prisoner trapped in
the Season's purgatory.

The pain settled
in the marrow of her bones
like termites feeding on timber.
The pain battled
with the beautiful thoughts of her mind
like a prize-fighter pinned against the ropes.
The pain dragged
her youth and her innocence

and tossed her off a twelve story parking garage.

The grief stole
the satisfaction of life from his control
like a gust of wind upon candlelight.
The grief fogged
the gleam of hope in his eyes
like factory steam blots out the stars.
The grief shackled
his energy and his spirit

and bound him to a hospital bed.

...why couldn't they find a hand to hold?

I smoke every cigarette in the pack
long enough that the filters melted
and my lips blacken
like the nightsky,
when you stepped down
the granite staircase
in a burgundy bouclé dress
that radiated brighter than
the chandelier overhead.

All we ever had was enough.
Now I smoke to remember
the nights when the fog
followed us home
and the music of us
slow dancing in silence.

I pack my bags
and I leave my keys at your door.
You hold me close and you whisper:

*"What the hell are you waiting for?"

Look! The clouds
that blot out your mind-light
are advancing
like a thousand arrows
released from a thousand bows.

It might rain today.
Did you bring your umbrella?
You give thanks to the rain,
but you curse the downpour.

But the faster rain falls,
the sooner the sun breaks free,
right? Right?

It's like your first time
smoking **** as the smoke
floats across the black light
like a whispered prayer
to God
or a damnation
to Satan.

That startling paranoia,
with that tinge of euphoria.

It's what keeps your hands trembling.

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings"*

Here stands a city,
stretching as far as
the east is from the west.
Dark and deep is the night
on the streets lined
with desolate lamp posts
which once ago held
light
to those who walked
to a place they called
home.

The moon beams
pierce apathetic clouds
and cast a milky
gleam
onto a decaying brick wall
overspread with faded Krylon.

Situated next to a broken
window
upon the crumbling clay and mortar
is scrawled a message:

"Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

A shattered visage lies
cold and numb.
A man once dominant and
inspiring
now is decomposing
in the ratways of his once
gleaming
empire.

The spray paint can rolls
from upon his fingertips
and his faint whisper
is as fleeting as a
morning breeze.

"That's not what
I meant at all.  That's
not what I meant
at all. that's not
what i meant at all
thats not
what i meant at
all what i meant
not at all..."

The wind erupts -
you've frozen up
and curse the Cold North
with outstretched arms to the sky.

Oh, how I straightened my tie
and left the warmth of the South
to find your eyes, full of doubt,
staring into themselves through reflections.

"Let go," I say.  "Come inside."

Through all folly
and all anger,
you're frightened here.

You yell:
"How can I start again?
It's all a dream to me now.
Inside is cold, too.
I cannot let go."

Goodbye is inadequate,
but how can we say enough?

So you depart,
I watch you set off.
You sail on rivers,
you float on seas.

I'll be the light in the fog
if you decide to row home.

My father was a bayonet.
My mother was gunpowder.
I was born
as a bullet fired from its chamber
aimed at the enemy's heart.

Cautious eyes never see
my burning hands before I
rip them apart
for I do not know what I am doing.
Agressive fists swing
toward my barbed wire skin,
but even the luckiest hands
lose their fingers.

I am not a time bomb
set to explode;
rather, I am shrapnel
from my bayonet father
and my gunpowder mother.

So, if you get too close
expect a fallout
and listen for my voice
in the reverberation:

*I do not know what I am doing.

Light barely drips
through the cracks in the blinds
and the dust floats
back and forth
like snow falling
onto unchristened ground.

I want to yell.
To reach my hands toward
heaven
and scream.

Because we were running.

We rushed our hands
through the grain
and splashed
in the puddles of Spring.
We were light,
glowing and weightless,
as we drifted through freeways
and back-roads.
I followed that river
that flows in you
like a melodic composition.

Now, my hands
reach upward at things not seen.
My feet are motionless,
while your river's current
carries you forward.

The dust settles without a sound.

Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the Mississippi
down the border
of Mississippi.
The girls with
the purple party beads
and the sax buskers
on the brown streetcars
drink through their
Mardi Gras,
down streetcars named Desire.

Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the slow jams
from the Apollo
during Locke's Renaissance.
The young gangsters
down every block
drop their
fists sticks knives guns
and shake to albee.

Holy Spirits
move through
vast cathedrals
and through
empty pews.
The zealous hearts
and the corrupt voices
all drink
and listen
to the voice
of the serpent.

The waves
collided with one another.
A genesis, in grief and ashes,
seemingly outside
the gates of hell.

The screams
of new birth
suspended me
in the air.
As thick as tree branches;
as crooked as their twigs;
they fastened around my hands,
and I soared high above
the disharmony.

Wavering, incomplete.

My life
flashed before my eyes
and I saw you
standing amidst a red sunrise.
"Don't wait," you said.

"Don't wait."

The world of my spirit
was freed from the shackles of my flesh

and the skies were reborn.

The choir girls on rooftops sing
songs of thanksgiving in
harmonious gleam
while the children dance
in vibrant gyrations
underneath the olive trees.

A fire burns while people cheer and chant,
and folk songs flutter like ash.
The sparks fly as burnt wood collapses
and the king takes his throne.

He addresses his court
with eager voice
that echoes across the fields
and all eyes and ears are keenly fixed
on his majesty.

He speaks:
"My people, my friends,
my enemies, my lovers -
from all lands far and wide -
will you open your eyes
and see your live like this?

There is no bloodshed or death
and I can see your lungs expand with each breath.

Now, please fill your cups
with the strongest of wines
and let music ring
with the loudest of chiming.
Let peace fill your souls
and love cloud your minds.

Lay down your swords,
pax et concordia
for love is the strongest of wards."

When rain falls
it arrives like
an army charging down a hillside,
beating their fist against their shields.
Or it arrives like
tears from a father's eyes
as he opens his arms and says
"Welcome home, son."

When rain falls
it is greeted by
open umbrellas and rubber boots.
Or it is greeted by
children with eyes closed
and faces toward the skies
as drops fall on their tongues.

When rain falls
it is caught by
rooftops, gutters, and windshields.
Or it is caught by
the eyelashes of two lovers
saying hello again
after ages of goodbyes.

When rain falls
it lands on
tree leaves
who carry it to their roots.
Or it lands on
cracks in the sidewalk
and encourages new life to burst forth.

When rain falls
it sounds like
the rushing rivers
and the tides breaking on the shorelines.
Or it sounds like a prayer gently whispered
to ears patiently listening.

When rain falls
its promises are protected
by the guard of a rainbow.

When rain falls
its promises are protected
by the guard of a rainbow.

The weathervanes
swirl snow into shimmering spirals.
The trees,
in slow rebirth,
retrogress to barren skeletons.
The cold leeches the green
from the emergent grass.

I perch atop wire farm fences
to rest my wings, to mend broken feathers;
the wind moves silence amidst the cold,
for my voice is void of song.

I see a flock flutter in the sky,
their call beckoning my flight to be one with theirs;
our voices to be one as we sing
songs of hopeful blessing
amidst nature's dissonance,
and chimes will resound from porches
and deer will drink from running waters
as if nothing has moved backward at all.

I will have a new song to sing,
as clouds break, revealing the splendor
of divine daylight.

I'm gonna wear
my weathered cardigans
and be swallowed by the pack
of Seattle commutes
with my vinyl records in one hand,
a guitar in the other,
and a backpack full of
J. Kerouac and C. Bukowski
and R. Adams and L. Cohen.

I gonna live
off of the San Francisco Bay saltwater
and the bummed cigarettes outside
of bars that play nicotine music
to my ears.

I'm gonna sleep
on the ground in front of cookie-cutter houses
with their fence posts painted white.
I'll feel my psyche strum its last chord
and soon I'll be gone
without a sound.

I'm gonna die
in a new town where nobody knows my name.
I'll be a Chicago artist
full of New York poetry,
a Great Britain romantic
full of Alameda Victorian architecture,
or a Nebraska idiot
full of Midwest ambition.

I.

A twitch,
a slight itch on my arm.
Colors blur-
a child's scribbles
outside of the lines.

A burning heat in my pocket-
a needle to inject
that chemical freedom.

Sweaty palms
and a serpent whispering
into my ear.

Throw it away.
Light it up, friend,
Four days
it’s been far too long.
sober.

Escape!  Just let go.


II.

Wonderful, wonderful, I am nature!
I am designated to be brave!
To grow tall!
And you will never comprehend me.

I am a cure for history!
I’m an inspiration!
A beautiful scene!
All dreams and no panic.
I’m all rock and roll and cool waves.

I am a revolution!
¡VIVA LA REVOLUCIÓN!
I am a trend you were so afraid to bring back.
Everyone was wrong!

I will not be changed,
and I will go out with a bang…

III.

A bed,
shivering and white.
Lights.
Bright, sterile lights
flickering softly like trapped fireflies in a mason jar.

The faith chirp
of machines.
A flatline drones, dark and red.
I’m bound by tubes and cuffs and –

Oh God.

How many kids have died in this hospital bed?

No one** (has ever told me
that I should have a sense that
my life) belongs (on this earth, right)
here(, so I can continue to be) more than
(I ever imagined I could be.
Except for) you.

Rain fell like bullets of glass.
The wind blew from the mouth of God Himself.
The cold was suffocating us.

Fragments of a disaster,
and we embraced each other amidst it.

Words like red wine dripped from your lips.
Thoughts like tidal waves crashed in my head.

You were wrapped in a blanket,
and I simply stared at you
as I stood underneath the streetlight.
In moments, you'd be time zones away,
seas of water and seas of uncertainty between us.

We did not know if this moment was the end of the show
or simply the beginning
of beautiful poetry.

So I kissed you to find out.
A one-eighty degree turn on my heels
from whatif to whynot.

My only regret is that
I thought the only option was
to let go of your hands
and simply walk away.

I yearn to gaze into a lens
to view the outer space.
What my eyes will see all depends
on how I view this place.

Alive and well, stars burn with life;
while others, growing old,
will view these orbs with growing strife
until themselves are cold.

An asteroid falls across the sky
to find its resting place
in the minds of observant eyes
then die without a trace.

A satellite reflects the gleam
of our colossal seas-
vivid as a child's first daydream
to journey where they please.

I yearn to gaze upon these lives
in space that's all but void,
but I open my sightless eyes
where space is none but void.

I've watched as my leaves changed
from emeraldgreen
to jaundiceyellow
and tumbled from their blood vessels,
for my body could no longer support them.

I've witnessed petals descend from blossoms:
a flowergirl tossing the colors into the air
to pave the way for a father to let go of a daughter.

I gazed at buildings and bridges
buckle at their knees
as cornerstones and foundations fail-
Atlas crumbling under the Celestial Sphere.

I've seen many things fall.

But I've never gazed upon a girl,
fear as heavy as millstones
eclipsing her overcastgrey eyes,
ghostwalk off a ledge,
waving a whiteflag
as she plummeted to the ground like a bomb.

You must make a decision,
but you are suffocating
and time is running thin.

It's as if you are an astronaut:
one hundred feet away from your shuttle,
and the oxygen tank on your back
is empty.

It's like you are a captain:
pulled under the abysmal blue water
as your ship of the line is submerged
and your legs are tangled in the sails.

But really,
you are a young boy sitting a park bench
next to the girl from the schoolyard
with whom you fell madly in love.

The decision you must make:
Are you going to kiss her?

Reach the shuttle with mere seconds to spare.
Free yourself from the ******* of a sinking ship.

I pour myself
a glass of
Klonopin water
and chase it down
with a handle of
cheap *****
and a cigarette.

I move slowly
and stand in front
of my bathroom mirror
and watch my eyes
change from
bloodshot
to
blackout

and I ghostwalk
to the bottom
of my mind,
the venom slowly
filling my veins
and I dive deeper
into this hideous
numbness.

The sky is masked
with billows of gray clouds
that have made their journey from the north
and move without haste
about the Gateway to the West.

No bird casts its silhouette
against the dreary backdrop,
and rain falls
like tears from our eyes:
two wanderers
hands interwoven,
trying to find a place to call home
so our weary feet can rest.

Oh, we are prone to wander.

She rests her head on my shoulder,
her soft brown hair falls
gently across her amber green eyes.
I rest my head on hers,
and we are timeless.

She whispers: "Everything is going to be okay"

I drive west
and she drives east
and rivers and roads
finally fall between us again.

The sky breaks its masquerade
and the gray dissipates
and the blue is radiant.
The birds take flight,
their wings directed toward
the four winds-
no concern for
northsoutheastwest.

I look up and whisper:

*"Everything is going to be okay"

passes
in a flash of famous last words.
An extravagant way of
going out in style
that is only witnessed
by those stargazers,
spread out amongst
layers of blankets,
that are lucky enough
to be watching
without
blinking.