Trips to Shanghai taking photographs
of junks that were full of bones
Forgotten pixels stashed in the cover
of shade in the corner of the room
drawings in pastel paint brushed on the walls
You fell from the sky and crashed into my eye
I flew from the ground and landed in your thighs
Crucifix Sunday's and brunches in mobs
We drank the nectar of Pine trees
and redeemed our throbbed wrongs

I told a crimson bird the secrets of the dawn
It bedecked the eyes of wayward wanderers
thrashing in the night
Diamond crested brews splashing on the lawn
capsules for the faint of heart
three morning glories
Vegas' spark, Vegas is dark
Emerald curtains to be ***** and forlorn
tethered at the seams In a half-worn tone
Drizzle on his cheeks; bruises on his knees
speaking French like a malnourished disease
Trotting across Bay Bridge In a blue jean dreg
tattoos of limericks and the horns of a stag
Reading tarot cards and tinkering with thugs
Passing around potions and drawing lady-bugs
Upside-down In chlorine pools
to beseech tea-leaves In Autumn
Where the weather is not warm
and the postmodernism creeps sullen
Caffeine infested speak
cooing cockatrices from the windowsill
telling all the neighborhood kids tales
that began as blank pages of dribble
In the alleyway they stumble
back to hotels of metal
carrying letters with water stains and ribbon

There's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,      
   Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;  
   Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,              
   And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.        
   There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there's moss about the pool,
   And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:          
   In the silent sunken pathways springs a herbage sparse and spare,      
   Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.    
   There is not a living creature in the lonely space arouna,              
   And the hedge~encompass'd d quiet never echoes to a sound.              
   As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find              
   When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;              
   I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,                  
   As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.              
   Then a sadness settles o'er me, and a tremor seems to start -          
   For I know the flow'rs are shrivell'd hopes - the garden is my heart.

Traces of constellations written in freckles on your back
A laugh like Judaism and a touch like loneliness
Can only explain it in pictures of black and white images
like a chemical combustion in frail snapshots
tethered hands all  weathered and rough
Misspoken masterpieces communicated through touch
So hard to contain this sensation
I can't explain through anything tangible
A cloud that changes shape upon inspection
Spectacles, our honors
gleaming like a trophy that's hidden in a box
left alone to rust
Miscellaneous hands grasped to chasms
moving so quick and fast
There's no lines attached to those burdens or
bodies crisp gloves cover up
Stretched or crunched
hovering like a light
above storms in the town square
Overblown posters with checkers
faded colors in Spring
advertising bands
that I won't listen too, fabric I'll never feel
noises I'll never have to speak over
or turn down on radios
Artichoke hearts stabbed by the fork
held by an animator choking on the root
This is the inheritance of sound
of presences on stages or garages
These oiled gemstones
blurred behind faceless statuesque
pieces of cold stone

Unconscious con-artists
sipping on each other's pop
intertwining their legs like Twizzlers
Squeezing the back of their necks
playing in the dark
tumultuous bed sheet
half-hanging on a mattress
Bruised lip, scratched skin
Disowning our faults
Pulled triggers on abrasive guns
for provocation and
crawling into trouble

Digging into the recess' of my skull
while speaking in tongues
trying to find an absolution
to secrets I'll never know
and I want to possess this thing
that's deep within my soul
and then I could give it a name
if it could make me whole
An endless dialogue in my brain
that ceases only every now and again
on roller-coasters, or speakeasies,
when it's raining or when I'm sleeping
Dancing in this state of mind
any charm will do for a
semblance of the supernatural or
a moment of truth
or live the rest of my life
with my lids slammed shut
in an isolated existence within
dreams I've never touched
Fresh out of breaths
looking through bruised eyes
hypnotized by my palpable perceptions

Maybe writing will save me
but tell that to Virginia Woolf
When my body lays in the soil to
fertilize the Earth maybe
I will come back as an Aspen tree
and the robins could make circular nests
to safe keep their hatch-lings
I was baptized in neon lights
In the city of Denver
like living in a snow globe
driving drunk after hours
I wonder what Times Square
looks like right now
These tailor made dreams
entire generations chasing paper
Get rich quick schemes where the
obstinate promise of prosperity
will be our legacy and anchor
Where's the avatar of our times
Is he or she working in an office
or clipping coupons and getting by
just barely on rent  working in
a dispensary selling legal marijuana?      
old enough to go to war but not get drunk
off tequila
it seems like massive hysteria
and I was at the grocery store buying
bread and the cashier was talking about
New World Order, the Illuminati and
receiving a red sticker in the mail.
Graffiti-tombs and voodoo
I wonder where Lord Byron is buried?
I wonder if Jesus is coming back
or if terrorists will listen to the Beatles
and declare that love is all you need.