I lift my hand to fade
To that other place
I close my eyes to wake
In another day
I pay the toll and fake
A happy face
I play to keep my kills
In another way
I'm here to stay
Awake

Nickels and dimes
              are not enough
                      for this
heart

Before guns wore make-up,
We used to put pennies in our socks
So we’d always walk on the root of all evil.

Now Wall Street angels frolic through satellite clouds borrowed
from youths educated by universities of smoke and plastic bags.
                  
(The tears of a child are homage to the waning gods)
For in a day not far away,
Over the painted moon of the Morning Son,
The sun will rise wearing the finest war scars money can buy.

And the screams of humanity will be heard from Venus,
Forgetting that the reciprocal of   L-I-V-E   itself  is     E-V-I-L
And perhaps death is the life meant to be lived.

To circle this world—
Hell in marriage with heaven,
I still bear our ring.

I've done this before
the      d       i         s            t           a          n          c               e

game.

Must be something
special cause I swore
I'd never futs with
that again.

But here I am
marking days off my
calender     X     X     X
X     X      X

She blinks.
And such an ordinary unnoticeable movement
Creates movements in places he never intended to landslide.
She's a super natural rip tide
She's an extraterrestrial tour guide
To the universe
Of his dreams.
The
Space
Of her smile
Sends his pupils rocketing space-bound.
The black holes of her throat are cautiously slippery,
She wants him to drown.
She's ******* him down
Down
She's gathering him up
And escorting him around
Like shooting stars in a moonlit sky
His pupils search for the skies in her eyes
And she blinks.
She etches the disguise of his demise in her memory,
And she tattoos her name in his heart with permanent ink.

Mean? No, you misunderstand me-
the lady is not cruel.

She's just a goodly heart
surrounded by a moat of alligators.

You're an hour ahead of me,
so when I think good morning now,
did you feel it a while ago?

Did it settle in your pulse?
A warm sudden second?
Anything?

My heart is dead with missing you.
This is not a poem-
but calling it so
is the polish that makes pain
speakable.