All beauty must fade,
          wither, crack, split, die,
                    and so too the beauty
of sweet hospitality
          loses something magical
                    when put to a test.
Splintering down to
          strained smiles,
                    curt little whispers
behind a turned back
          summon up strangleweed
                    between the gaping cracks
of a path we walked
          for so long until "so long."
                    There's a blind desire
to douse what remains
          in that left-behind radiance
                    with a drowning of petrol,
a gasoline baptism,
          and send it out with a pyre:
                    something to remember.

Our encounter begins, O glass of amber,
With your trembling surface inviting my lips,
your glass's simple flare; I may be no gambler,
But I see you quake as glass meets fingertips,
And you're not all sweetness - you'll change my timbre
Certainly enough - my gentle grip you nearly slip
As I survey your amber surface, raising you
Just high enough to sample from your bitter dew.

I cannot begin to wonder just how long
We've spent embracing each other, all wrapped up
And tangled together - I see I belong
To you as much as you to me - in my cups,
That desperate, furtive hunger spins a song
From my whispers: the way you've bound me up,
The way you draw me down, your bite on my tongue:
Your every breath invades me, fills my lungs.

In our time, we'll grind each other down to dust
Dissolving in that weary, seething flavor
Shot through every lingering of lips; I trust
My temperance will tire you - still, let's savor
These summer days, their mists ensuring the rust
Which withers us to nothing - In all, I favor
You against my lips, your fire dispelling cool:
In reason, in temperance, I turn the fool.

I offer no defense of my hidden sin,
Not when it wastes a fragment of eternity
In frivolous expenditure, stretched so thin
Across another vast, sprawling century.
And if I would - if I were - where to begin
This tour of a macabre private gallery?
All things, even this one, have their beginnings:
Thus, my humble collection's underpinnings.

Called to this divine vocation, I set out
Each time I encountered one who, crafting art,
Demanded my attentions. Please: never doubt
The truth of my intentions; my swelling heart
Adores them, falls in love as they sing or spout
Their lifeblood inspiration. Stepping apart
From all of this, don't stare so miserably!
Can I be blamed for working literally?

I love them, one and all, and here I curate -
Safe from all the ravagings of time, if not
Precisely speaking safe from my own mandate -
The workings and workers who inspired such thought,
Such incisive action. I lay them in state
With tender care, never sold and never bought.
Perhaps a glance at my favorite pieces
Might reassure you? My latest releases?

Observe the cuts into copper, engraving
Her fury, her passion into the cold plates!
How torturous, yes? She recalled it, raving,
Having sought me out to deny the ingrates
Assailing her solitude, as a craving.
I preserved her passion. Here, her works’ mates:
The roses she treasured etched into the hard bone
Of her shoulder-blades and skull, instead of stone.

But so few beloveds grace my humble home
Despite my voracious eye surveying scores
Of likely lovers - artful, otherwise - some
Lacking, left uninvited. Those I adore,
I long to beckon close - close as you now come.
Join me? There's more to show you, so much more,
And I hope you'll linger tonight, to dine.
I've just the thing for an artist who loves wine…

Hearken, seeking hero:
Hear a scalding skald song!
Venture bold and bravely,
Bring a vintner victuals,
Sup on mead of mulling!
Mete the morning's merry,
Fortress; stand in fastness,
Fear no sorrow stalking.

Keep watch. Night saps you, catches you with a blackjack,
drains you like sand sifted through an hourglass
running low on patience, low on time, low on hope,
but it's 11:00 p.m. and you've been here three days
and so has everyone else so you keep quiet and

Keep watch. Under the fluorescent hospital lights,
your stage awaits so you put on a brave face,
paint that clown mask and start the production:
not tears, not fears, just enough to get them through
to the miracle waiting for them, but you've been around
and you know miracles ain't cheap, so keep the faith and

Keep watch. Through the racking coughs, through the
distant sobbing all receding into absence of thought
to match absence of action, as your turn comes up
to give this mockery of last rites, to sanctify the dead
and soon to be dead, to keep some kind of memory and

Keep watch.

What would you do for love? Sacrifice and all,
that's beautiful, but the gift that keeps on giving
Is horror.

Would you vivisect yourself
And bolt them down against your bones?
Would you tailor yourself to fit?
Would you care, just a little bit?

Would you strike the sun from the sky?
While others break and bend and die
Would you turn to your dearly beloved
And say "It's okay, we'll make it through"
With that soft smile you know they love?
Would you lie? Could you try?

Choose another bitter morning routine -
whether from cold, coffee, or compression,
As in "man, I really need to just relax and decompress"
But without the last bit happening.
Choose to let it sink in until you can bite it off,
Choose the pressure because it feels like home,
Choose to dally, choose self-sabotage,
Choose kicking at the gears of your routine until
Something warps under the strain until
It fits like you never believed it would.
Choose the long way into work, a million faces
Nodding off behind their steering wheels,
The city's symphony still trying to get in tune,
Still trying to harmonize with, with, with, with
Whatever gets them to their job still sane, all
Trying to dance to beats only they can hear,
Howling out careworn verses they scrawled
By trailing their lives along the road:
The rhythm of the city is discord and hell.