the bar was dark cave.

Dixie sang a song
and I pretended
she was singing to me.

two amateur fights,
2 black eyes
and a broken nose.

(and i couldn't get the silly grin off my face.)

"there is something beautiful
about the fall

to the canvass," I tell her,
"the sweet dreams only of you."

Dixie shook her head,
"why do you fight
when all you do is lose?"

"if you don't fight
you've already lost."

Dixie said I was crazy
and i scared her.

"but Dixie
you are my only friend.
we'll pull the stars down from the sky,
set the wicked night on fire."

Dixie tried hard not to,
but she smiles.

and there is something graceful
about the fall, golden leaves. the brevity
and the cooling air

and the nights we had by the lake.

a silent embrace...her warmth lingers against me,
a quiet tenderness beyond touch
and all we knew was a timeless "now."

Dear E----,

The bus crawls eastward like an insect:
silvery carapace and compound eyes,

broad-spotted blue-red with ads
as we scuttle along the curb-crumbs,

outpacing a decaying Tuesday sun.
In my thoracic seat I think of love,

its strangest colors and contours,
gentle treacheries and bridges burnt,

a wavering lawn of doubled sleep.
Tonight we dine on margaritas

in our cheap pub on the hill,
hope the questions all get answered,

touch feet under the table in secret.
I'm sure I wear at your patience

with this haircut I slashed myself,
my many stumbles of attention,

all my errors of cipher and code,
& the old hot luggage of my battles...

but you persevere. Look up -
the stars are champagne perlage

in a dark coupe, and all around
the living are dying; the dying are living.

Herein hides all discretion
behind the smooth deception
of solid things ~
For truly, we are not.

We are wavy, up and down,
woven space spun inside out,
turned right-side up,
the patterns blend
as one full Cycle starts again!

The One in All or All in One
The many dance
in Wholly thrum
A Sacred Song,
sung by the Spirit.
A blissful tune
for those who hear it.

My Dancing Girl-

Perhaps the Spring
In our Leap

Has stretched but
My Spirit Soars

With your head
Rested

Upon my shoulder

A BIG bad woof
Flu D coupe
In his 1970's Gremlin
There was lace and leather and lots of feathers
Stuck to his growl and smile
All of the hens raised
a hell of a den
And cackled , clucked
and wished him luck
Hoping he'd come back again