French love
stolen from cobbled
streets at night,
ground up
and stuck in grain.
Below wine, above glass,
and swallowed
(mistakenly).
It’s hard to forget
such great simplicity;
this wine holds my lips
which has more to say
than you and me.
At night I dream
of how the cork
would have smelled,
if only I’d had the strength
to pry it free.

One last smoke before the snowstorm
Last fire before the rain
One last drink before we put it out,
before the others came.
One last kiss before you leave me
last night, dreaming still.
One last sleep left hoping
to remember you; I will.  
One last drive down your lone road,
last time seeing you on the stairs,
One last time left my heart still beating
about you standing there.
And one last time staring at the stars
wishing that I could see
just how one last smoke before the snowstorm
left you wanting me.

There’s nothing like a G&T;
at 12:43 in the morning.
It seems strange to think
that one thinks
to see such a thing boring.
And yet I’m sure there’s a lot,
to be frank,
but that ship’s already sailed
and it too has sank.
Vincent claimed the wagon too small
so we stowed it away in the hull.
Now ***, bourbon, brandy…
scotch, beer and all
are sailing to Davey
at young Siren’s call.
But, prepared with these blocks
of cinder and dust,
crew heads down below
dragged by full frontal lust.
There’s nothing like a G&T;
at 12:45 in the morning.
It seems strange to think
that one thinks
to set off such a warning.

Freight rumbles by
While sweat drips down
And the crackle of a speaker
Still sounds;
Echoing through the tunnel.
A body turns, fidgets, moves
And itches with the heat.
The feet they tap
And dance with boredom
Wishing *** had a seat.
A woman leaning upon a beam
Aggravated by beads from pores
Moves to take a walk, it seems,
But soon she leans some more.
Too hot to move, til a breeze is felt
Coming down the rails
A beam of light, first one than two
And not freight, but silver and blue.
The cool air flows like whiskey at a funeral
Sour, but necessary, to make it through the ride;
And you sleep through stops instead of wondering who the hell had died.
Thumbnail clippings float down the car from conversations had:
Comfy chairs, squatter’s nation, opiates, and ***** mags.
Subtle "sorry"s linger in stale air from bumps that people make
While ******* suits, stiff as cadavers, snoot and snivel of mindless drivel
And look around in shame.