And who the hell cares?
I will not close my eyes
Or shut my ears to the world.
Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock-
     I am a born again sinner
Clamoring with a restless species:
Yeah that means you all,
Flourishing in misery
Over the shrinking planet-
     Babies making babies
And I see them all becoming depressing
      Fires, like little stars flashing
For a tiny moment the exploding
     Searching for the abyss called desire,
I cannot say my name,
      Who the hell cares
When the world is a buried sphinx
Under a questioning of programs,
    Asking:
" What's this life for!" in blue tears.
        The blood flows under
Closed wounds,
   Yesterday and today when the revolution
Was never fought and the thought
Comes crashing down against
     The youth in the dawns troubling light,
    Children, it never stops!
The dream dies at the impenetrable sky,
   Children with half smiles
And a sigh of anguished breaths,
     Collection of living dust and bones,
Into the bitter night the dove
Itself cannot rest,
    I cannot say my name,
At the right hand of oppression
    Flourishes an anger building
Like a mutilated rose roaming
    For a sense of destiny.

I fall, you fall,
      We are convicted,
Living in a shadow of nothingness,
    The forgotten scent of the dream,
These strange sounds that flutter,
     My God give me a destiny,
But I cannot say my name,
    I remain a face in an ocean
Of solitary faces,
      We look out on the road,
There is death passing through,
     A tiny rumble in the heart
Then cries:
      FREEDOM!

He loves
with rapt attention
his nearest neighbor
an unattainable beauty
a temptress
veiled in aquamarine
and evergreen
she has forever been
his only muse

he reaches
invisible fingers
across the void
seeking warm earth
against the bone
chilling blackness
for he cannot
turn to face
the sun

she is breathless
beneath his fullness
her every landscape
willingly unfurls
his forceful touch
swings her tide
from crest to ebb
she can only spin
in ecstacy

she memorizes
each scar
on his luminous skin
for she is wise
to his lunar ways
love that borrows light
to show its face
is surely meant
to wane

You asked about it later,
in the best way you knew how
as I was tracing dreamy cursive
on your neck; I sighed across
your skin just like a cool front
blowing in and said –  It
doesn't even matter. I forget.

Speaking of how
these Ladies of the Night
must hate Daylight Savings Time
since the sun doesn’t set until nine, and
the cloying summer scent of honeysuckle
drowns the smell of their knock-off Gucci Guilty.
Except there’s that one A.M. Pro
who works the whole stretch in front of
The Towing and Recovery Museum
from 7 something till lunch.
She’s tried to keep a low profile, but
is hoping to meet that one lonesome soul
who needs to get blown
at ten o’clock in the ******* morning.
Sometimes I wave at her when I drive by,
wishing her the best,
whatever that may look like...

The fasten seatbelt warning light is flashing on my dashboard but
I’m buckled in, rest assured.
That’s probably important, but
it’s like what Don Q whispered to Sancho through the Spanish gloom:
“I need you.”

She smiled
her best hurricane smile
with lightening instead of teeth and
eyes at once anxious and unkind,
whispering first,
“you ain’t near good enough.”
Then,
“I’m probably going to **** you tomorrow.”

The gate has
an intimidating portcullis
secured with
a five dollar padlock
from Ace Hardware.
That’s enough to keep me out.
Over the high south wall I can see
broken glass treetops,
not so much reaching for the sky as
probing it for weaknesses.

I stand and stare
as day turns night.
Some far off moon rises;
a sickly crescent
that reminds me of

a smile
    
    like a hurricane
        
           with thunderheads
                
                  instead of dimples.


Suddenly
I am filled with dread

for tomorrow.

madly believing
romping nymphs squirming bluebirds
perch squelching, cackling