This whole thing
might be harder
if we were more aware.
Ignorance is my EpiPen.
Tell me stars are just fireflies
putting on a show,
all for me.
Convince me
that you are not from here,
but here alone.
Persuade me
there is an after party
where you will meet me
and we’ll take the tram
out of the skylight
and fall asleep together
in a bed of telephone wires
carrying words of honey.
Assure me that rivers
stay the same,
that days never end,
the nights don’t either,
that the world is static,
and that I’ll feel this way forever.
Lie to me if you have to,
but do it with the same
sugar cane lips
you press to my shoulder.

We lay there naked
loving and laughing,
soundlessly saying
sweet things
with delicate finger tips,
escaping, for a moment,
from the fire
burning the world
outside the bedroom
door.

Light pollution
may be
a necessary evil.
But beyond that,
the only other necessary evil
I know of is love.
My heart goes far away,
when I think about her.
We are rubber bands
laid next to another
amongst many others
on the bungee rope
that ties the sun
to the earth.
This rope is strong,
but it stretches
and constricts
in a way that
brings the winter
and the summer,
the day and the night,
darkness and light;
you are the martini
of my Monday.

I am not the lion
I am the impala.
I am the cabinet
in the kitchen
left wide open.
I am here
for so much of my life
setting alarms
on my phone
for the next morning.
The ash tray
is filled
with exactly 73 cigarettes,
but not exactly 73 memories,
and not exactly 73 regrets.

I’ve never considered
that there was ever
a moment
that music didn’t enhance.
But I’ve finally found
a peace in my life,
however fleeting,
where the green light
on Grant street
is the drop
I’ve been waiting for.

What an inconsistency,
that the rain or her
bioluminescent smile
can cool
this sun drenched balcony
down to a place
that makes you
the good kind of cold
in early July.
It’s too ridiculous to seem real;
no one would ever give something
as ethereal away to someone else.
Or maybe that’s not true.
Maybe that’s what keeps
the asteroids from hitting earth.

Rarely, if ever,
the toolbox in the closet
comes out for some
easy fix.
Today it was my lawn chair.
But I can’t use a wrench
to fix the way you look at me,
as you try to sip
the entire Colorado river
through a plastic straw.
Part of me wants to let you
have your fun,
to believe that across
the table from me
you might find
your own wrench.
But stainless steel
has no effect on the cortex,
no effect on the river,
no effect on a sun
that has overstayed its
welcome.
Drink me
until the wrench
must come out,
but I have a duty
to warn you
that I am not
a lawn chair.