A way to sing the praise
of rotting memories
without the tears
without the years
without the tears
without the years

...

you could come
if you choose.

Don't think I dont know.

The music isn't a magnet,
it's an escape.

Conquistador
claiming you
night after night.

In those hot and
cool May and June nights.

How much could mean
nothing?

In memoria,
our ashes sing
songs of sadness.

Over the ridges of kettle corn chips
as some sort of enduring
piece mail attempt at balance.

It's never possible.
You are unlovable.

And if fault may lay,
it lay in me.
When I die,
early of my years,
I've gladly gone,
and am listening to music
with Noni
and Tim.

Gaze down I examine
the dried once-white paint
peeling away from
the wooden window frame.

I am abbreviated
in my stance
as the knock reaches my ear.

Who are you?
I know you,
I mean,
I knew you.
I knew you?
I knew you...

Sunlight catches the air

I realize it was a dream.
I was wake-walking
into that leaning
blue-hearted home,
whose colonial frames
bear the weight of guilt,
peering, leaning
into me.

I become nothing.

The flower bloomed
in fertile dirt
then pulled her roots up,
spat on the soil she grew from,
petals turning vanta black,
and left.

I cradle my head
like the Old Guitarist
the leather of this couch
a cold and dead reminder
of your flesh
which I would feed on
in this very spot.