He clings to the bible
carrying it as if were a dog carrying dead fowl
its stiff brown spine
sometimes I wonder what kind of
clicks and and sparks happen in
that maze of a mind
staring with shiny slack lips
they reflect the heavens I’m sure of it
although usually avoid his eyes
there’s too much turbulence.

Even wan hills
looked better in
threadbare light
You were the whisper
of a neon lights
noses to the sky
in a pitch plastic night
I walked by their obstinate
legs, haunted by a plastic bag
gliding on negligent bursts.
upon arrival
roughly hung doors
of understanding
lit by cheap sulfur bulbs.
The handles too large for
small palms to turn
my feet knew better ways home
they ambled on beside my plastic ghost.

we were two doves,
beaded on gossamer wires
early windswept sunlight
it cracked our skin
metallic melodies
bathed listening
ears in it’s soulless rapture
a call of illusory progress
lifting above sagging rooftops

sky packaged in brown lace,
and at her feet
glittering blankets white.

although it was the bitter
rinds of a passive love
cellophane days
crackle loud in a static mind

Swim in hot
manilla seas; Where dreams
fail to be a membrane to
protect from waking

we were two doves on a wire
intertwined between dusk and daylight
the weight of the day
settled with a hazy sigh
upon our bones
shadows spreading
like spilled ink bled
from trees.

For the angels who inhabit this town,
although their shape constantly changes,
each night we leave some cold potatoes
and a bowl of milk on the windowsill.
Usually they inhabit heaven where,
by the way, no tears are allowed.
They push the moon around like
a boiled yam.
The Milky Way is their hen
with her many children.
When it is night the cows lie down
but the moon, that big bull,
stands up.

However, there is a locked room up there
with an iron door that can't be opened.
It has all your bad dreams in it.
It is hell.
Some say the devil locks the door
from the inside.
Some say the angels lock it from the outside.
The people inside have no water
and are never allowed to touch.
They crack like macadam.
They are mute.
They do not cry help
except inside
where their hearts are covered with grubs.

I would like to unlock that door,
turn the rusty key
and hold each fallen one in my arms
but I cannot, I cannot.
I can only sit here on earth
at my place at the table.

I love the sound
of fresh papers
as they come
crinkling and
crackling out of
the package,

the aroma
of citrus and earth,
sweet smelling grass,

the sensation
of stickiness,
dulled spikes
of fresh stems,

the sight
of red orange flames
lapping up
crisp white paper,
of translucent
gray smoke
whisping
out of the small
opening of a pipe's mouthpiece,

the taste
of wisdom, sage, and ash,
vaporizing my insides,
filling my lungs
and brain
full of poetic fumes;

I love to break
you
down,
roll you up,
set you ablaze,
and
inhale
you,
vaporizing my insides,
filling my heart
and brain
full of poetic fumes.

I love to
get
high
off you;

I don't want
to
ever
get
clean.

Let's
roll
another.

There was a child once
full of  barely hidden laughter and mischief
emotions endlessly poured out and back in
like a tide tasting a new shore for the first time
Where is that child i wonder

there was a traveler once
thirsting for the experience and life seen all around
headfirst diving into the world accepting
fearing nothing and witnessed with wide eyes
where is that traveler i wonder

there was a husband once
overflowing with found shining love
joy swamping easily the baseless fear of loss
proven in horrible perfection in a moment
where is that husband i wonder

there was a father once
completely enamored of a tiny squalling form
filled with a something that could not be defined
until it was gone drained and replaced with horror
where is that father i wonder

there was a lover once
coupled a shy temerity with a respectful tenderness
opening to possible love as a flower to sun
bruised and rejected on occasion though ever hopeful
where is that lover i wonder

there was a soldier once
who stood up with passion for those who could not
heart on the sleeve and thunder on the brow
viewing the world as a problem to be fixed
where is that soldier i wonder

there was a fighter once
who smiled sadly as he fought and killed in the name of money
laughing at the jokes his companions made in desperate tones
as they hid the slowly acidic thoughtful fear of being the bad guys
where is that fighter i wonder

there was a man once
betrayed and broken by this world and his choices
looking back across the memories that swirl and sift
ashes and dust that are all the remains of a once laughing child
and i don't need wonder where that man is.