The ****** sits on the curb,
Her hands knotted together, white
at the knuckles and
Red on the light palms,
Blue of veins and purple under
A bruised fingernail,
Slammed in a car door a week before.
The heels of her shoes are caked in Earth,
Heavy,
But she feels light,
For her hair smells of cigarette smoke
And her breath of whiskey and songs
And she knows she can’t go home like this,
So she listens in the still, thin air for
The sound of a train whistle,
Something to take her away,
Something that won’t let her look back.

For You, My Fantasy of Reckless Abandon and Whiskey Mistakes

I sit here as the thought of you,
whispering slurred speech between my legs in soft red light,
bleeds the youth from my veins,
Pulls me under,
like hooks in my tender, pale skin,
Cinematic,
Glamorous,
Gilded,
Burning.

Wake up worms!
I am the early bird.
Inspired by coffee
sunsets may the
Sunday chorus praise Hallelujah
May this fresh canvas paint me
a text that does not begin with
Why are you up so early?
And end with
I couldn't sleep
My mind
yesterday's clockweight
He didn't respond to me...

Her languid voice
Drew me in, drooped,
And tentacle hair wrapping,
My feet fell before hers,
Sinking in the faraway lost pool,
The mortality in the sands,
And even the stars, snuffed
Out of darkness and fire
Became the light of the world,
The hushed day breaking
With welling waters and salt.
How can dream be lived,
Within dream?  Must I swear
As I fall into bliss?

Why should we weep?
Will not December leave us with January?

I have gone unnoticed
    since that day of imagining
you
      on my black satin sheets
on the fourth of July last year
     so now at Christmas
I made from memory
   a stocking that hangs black over my empty bed
a canopy.
          Now I sleep on the love seat.
Was, hoping Santa
             would bring me you.

I takes care to stoke the flames rising,
or simply not to pat them down.
The ***** stare-at-the-wall riding
in hell
thinking
"where can I get another shot in this town?"

Down facing over our work to do
Cold cracked fingers bleed
through the gloves
the need to mend
is broken in the bend
the work for value
time trade
til no tree is left standing
to gather the dust of our
constructions...