For a day, Mr. Bukowski, just a day
take me to the races in your convertible. We'll bet on the losing horse and drink the winners under the table. I won't make you talk about poetry like all the others. Just horses and beer.

You said you didn't like
the song.
"It's for the religious."
But you missed the thankfulness
of longing, the shirt sleeve pulled
forward with *******, the killjoy
night ending
again
and
again, and a good
friend swallowing
hard, breathing
deep and accepting
endings, long drives,
and a fun house reflection
whispering
"Ha."

You tried to be a soul pirate

I saw you almost board the vessel of her mind

A plank of gypsy songs in tongues of men

pretending to be angels

and you crossed

cannons roaring

flags hoisted

wood splintering her side

my captain trembled

but grinned.

For Karen



This isn’t the body I wanted,

sickness in my blood river

that’s sunk the bravery rafts

that patrolled my surrender

and kept my coward in check -

so my puny hands

could steady the coffee mug

in the mornings and pour

your rich brew to its brim –

so my fingers could comb your

arm like a good lover that won’t leave

you inhaling alone.

I think you know

this isn’t the body I wanted

when I run my brittle nails

through my hair like the TV model

and create another spot balding for you-

you to kiss while I sleep in gasps

for your breath in darkness.

Baby, this temple is quaking

from the inside where the choir-

lungs used to sing and the preacher-

heart used to preach,

now has dust coated hymnal-

veins and mold frosting the bell-

throat that loved to ring sweet

in your ears.

This isn’t the body you loved

when your eyes swept this holy

cathedral like a sinner

in need of saving.

My church-going cells

have backslid against

the time we promised

each other…

This isn’t the body we wanted.