the sky is on fire
at sunset

(and you want to know
why i'm sitting
on the roof

the sky is on fire

and I only dream of you

and in Tibet
the monks write their prayers
on rice paper
and climb to a high mountain top
and fling their prayers
into the wind
where they will float
to heaven
and be answered

the clouds:
violet,
pale yellows,
and pink

and you want to know
what i'm doing
sitting up on the roof

so standing
I take the toilet paper
from my shirt pocket

and the wind knows
and skyward it goes)

the sky is on fire at sunset

and my quiet heart beats only for you

he swallows me in his arms at night
and wears me when he’s most vulnerable
In honor,
I clothe him
unbeknownst to him
while he sleeps
the angels and I meet
and we celebrate him

Pull down the night
sky
to use
for a blanket and a
cloud or two to comfort
you
a couple of stars in your ears
to lighten the load of your fears
and settle down for the evening,

it's getting colder and you know, not because we've told you,
but because you feel it creeping into your veins
fogging your brains and maker it harder to think and so you sink into an uneasy sleep where the dreams that turned bad are the dreams that you had long before this kiss of death

and each breath that you take makes you wonder if taking one more breath is better than..but if hope's on the horizon it had better get its skates on,
time's running out for those sleeping out and Winter is licking her lips.

Historically speaking, I am evil.
I used, I hated, I hurt, I cheated.
I lied, I drank, I wanted to die
But history is history.

I can't sit still while my world crumbles.
I can't stop trying to facilitate health.
You would that I made no mistakes
You would that I crucified myself.

My foundation is frozen in purgatory now
But humanity insists that I'll make it somehow
And when your record is littered with lies
The truth will always be clouded with doubt

I don't want to give up, but I want to give in
To the conceptual bliss of not having to be
I don't want to die, but I want the pain to end
I wonder what world waits for spirits set free.

Sometimes I wish that I never chose fatherhood
So I didn't have anyone to hurt, left behind
But I have to believe that this life will get better
Even when suicide strangles my mind.

To the little girl who grew up too fast:
Who had her childhood taken away from her too young.
Who never knew what innocence was.
Who desperately searched for love in all the wrong places.
Who was afraid to show her heart, but desperately wanted it to be seen.
Who craved validation from men, most who didn’t care to know her name.
Who drank until the world went black.
Who hurt people, because she was hurting her self.
So full of angst.

I can still see her now- clearly.
She lives inside me.
I can find her standing at her favorite beach.
Listening to the angry waves crash.
It’s night and she’s always crying, but silently.
Salt water sprays her face as salty tears run down it.
Staring at the ocean, gazing at the moon.
Desperate for a glimpse of hope.
Here she’s able to feel all the things she has kept inside—
Safely.

To the little girl who grew up too fast:
Who knew pain so young.
Who only wanted the love of her mother,
But looked for it in all the wrong places.
Who made choices to hurt herself, because she saw no value in herself.
Just know, I love you.
Even when you’re difficult to love.
I wouldn’t be me without you.

Light has shone, light as death,
Sunset is gathered in fishing nets,
Like a twine of leafy stems.
~The coldest sea is the blood
Of the murdered and aggrieved~
Scaly Autumn of lost fires and dragon plumes,
Lanterns in the fog, graverobbers of the moon,
Light has shone, suckles at the tomb.

The orangish streetlamp breeds sick spots
that stick to the gray street; the cubist bus
throws yellow beams into the insect air;
the humid black collapses like a bad hand
into small pyramids of dead cloud;
gel-bleached eye-fillings branch out
from the faces of strangers, full of vinegar,
unfriendly, averted. This glass of ***
is dark flecks on a hollow. The night-face
rotates slowly with metallic disease,
old scars that shine in the uncanny swell
of dust that breaks loose in the children's mulch-park.
She is long, long gone: a tomb-scrape in Paris,
a walk to a cafe where the yellow liquid waits;
I stalk through the stars, and then die up there.