the snow...
all the street intoxicated by it.

a passing car's head light
disturbs the intelligence of her eyes.
"in sleepless dreams, I know you,"
she tells me.

and like the snow blowing across the deserted street,
a smile spreads across her face
and as her green eyes slowly lift

I look into them
and see van gogh
sitting in a lonely field
of twisted cypress trees
forever blue, mysterious
and possessed.

then, as a street light comes on,
her slim white hand
(whitened by eternal snows) reaches

and into that deeper dark we walk

in the distance the lonely tooting of a taxi horn.

children waving
from the back
of a school bus window.

the flowers bloom.

run the halfway house.
the winos will be showered,
fed,
and then led
back
into infinite night.
they talk quietly to one another,
waiting,
and by the time
I have finished my 3rd cup of coffee
some of them are in the park
drunk already...

...eyes burning like a locomotives furnace,
eyes flutter,
a half spin,
the man kneels and then falls.
others just stand
and stare
as if already under the mortician's
knowing smile.

and yet,
some will rise
from bright mists at dawn,
cherubic and dew covered
survivors of the night's storm.
grim miracles
who will share a bottle with a friend
and then laugh
at the selective kindness of good men.

between the burning furnace and
the chill of the night
hungry strangers are waiting.

a new day begins.
all is quiet.

the bus station is empty
except for a homeless bag lady,
a mother and her child.

the janitor sweeps yesterday's dreams
from the worn floor.

the mother moves to a corner.
her son a shadow always at her side.
sad eyes needs someplace to go.

the bag lady moves to the corner.
she says something to the woman and her son.
I can not hear but
the mother smiles and the boy laughs
and they appear happy
long after the bag lady
has gone to talk to the lonely janitor.

she touches his shoulder.
he turns, nods and smiles.
and she is Jesus
creating small miracles
and harming no one.

in the shush of the brooms sweep,
the sun rises.
the birds are singing.
she moves into the flow of her heaven

an old man discovers a ghost in the closet

but in the mirror a young boy smiles.

the bow
touches
the strings
of the violin

one note,
one song.

through an open window
when a bulb burns out
a sliver of moonlight turns
tiny eyes red
and on little feet
the dimmest of dreams
from a corner
comes crawling.

when the night comes
through eyes closed
the room turns inside out.
the heart pounds away the seconds.
the edge moves closer
and the clock smiles.


when the night comes...

on the corner below my window
shadows whispering gather.
broken clouds
rolling dice that will never fall...

and on my knees
praying into the void
the toilet don't flush,
the toaster won't pop...
i grab the smoking toaster
and throw it out the window
the corner boys look up
the corner boys
are rushing up the stairs

me and the rat
waiting for the cops to come,
me and the rat
when the night won't leave
at 3 a.m.
eating donuts.

i'm falling into walls that appear to be rising above me

corporation against company,
train rider against commuter,
the animal's instinct is to destroy
and somewhere between a beer and 2 hotdogs,
cigar smoke and chatter,
joe got hit,
his legs bent,
and his *** hit the canvas.

...and somehow through the roar of a 1000 voices
I can see and hear
the ref
counting
chanting into joe's wondrous brown eyes
"1,2,3...

"oh ****," joe laughs a bit bemused
perched on top his vertebrae of stairs,
"oh ****,"

and he climbs back down those bones
into the quiet night...
there is distance were a building once stood
and the field that was the farm
that made way for a factory
is a field again
where no wheat will grow.

I kick the ground trying to unearth
the ashes of joe's fire
but the angry earth just bleeds dust...

...and down at Marty's grill
the shadows lean forward
and with one quick stare
drink up the dreamer and his dream...

when I leave Marty's Bar
there's a boy beating a dog
with a baseball bat.
the yelping, howling dog
and another swing of the bat,
a home run.

bundle the darkness in a tea bag,
hot water
and then rain.
the mailman comes.
a dog barks.
the house on the edge
rushes in.

pick one:

a. the flowers bloom,
set sail,
dream.

b. the candle burns down,
the flowers are wilting.

calm and chaos
through the eye of the needle
a shirt needs mending.

another day begins

just ask any waitress
in the diner
still sane.

ask a businessman
locked behind a desk.

ask a cop in jail for theft
or custer
or van gogh

or a child in harlem
foodless and cold.

ask the grey day
evaporated by the sun

just ask.


we all want to burn,
to dance and sidestep
through are own private hells

to hang
upon
a church bell
high above a cathedral
in notre dame
laughing,
in love with the finality of fire.

the fire
is a man with shotgun
standing in a savings and loan

the fire
is a 16 year old girl
in a
short
short
dress
with oh
so
long legs

the fire cries like snow geese
warm
so warm
into this cold winter's night.

this life we love
is but a hawk on fire
flying
flaming
into the sun of our existence...

we want what we fear,
i want the sun


i am burning.

when 2 birds standing on
2 different high tension wires kiss
love is short.

You wanted me to tattoo your name on my back.
"but who would see?" I asked.
"you just don't get," you screamed,
"you don't ever get it."
and you smashed a glass
on the worn rug.

It was a velvet rug
with a picture of elvis
painted across it
meant to be hung on the wall
and when the wind
parted the curtains
the shards sparkled like stars.

They say the human heart
weighs 3/4's of a pound
and scientists have found
in a tomb in Egypt
the heart of Cleopatra
shriveled like leather.
bitterness
can preserve a heart for eternity....

....but it's closing time at the bar
and outside in the cold, cold snow
outside in the snow
my darling
one last time
I'll **** your name.