She would take it down
       on old crumpled receipts—
imprisoned at the bottom of 

                           her bag.

Each laid to crooked rest next to
questionable crumbs of mystery
and a pen that leaked its
                    remaining potential
into scattered
Morse code all over
cheaply sewn lining.

The saving grace
of these little       ragtag proofs
allowed her to
relive the moment
when his singing voice
brought all of her
dizzy moth thoughts
                   to a stand still.

With each coo, he
pulled on all of the right strings,
and all of the right curves
on her body                 turned up
in all of the right places.

     Once again she
danced a smile with her eyes
and rolled her hips with her tongue
like she never
   forgot how.

An Autobiography

I rise from another sleepless night
Rinse off yesterday's losses
Put on my shoes
And hats
And walk out someone's front door
I travel the same path everyday
I know it well
It's paved in shells


I go to my job as a performer
I juggle hats you see
I juggle one for love
One for life
One for order
One for peace
And even one for me
I drop a hat now and then
And lately
More now, than then.

And when the hours have passed by
And the stars rise in the night sky
I trudge the shelled path
Right back to the past
The moon will come and go
And

I'll rise from another sleepless night
And rinse off yesterday's losses

There is nothing darker than the putrid soul of your heart
Crusted by burnt desires and pyroclastic ash
Tortured by your existence, dipped into the hells of mankind

Bubbling skin and singed mercy embrace me whole
Turn up flames and burn me alive
Hear my screams ****** your mind

Cast me out of the dead, for I am not leaving
Laid in a forever coma then awakened
Pompeii is dead, Pompeii is dead, Pompeii is dead