I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

Was willst du, was brauchst du?
- what do you want? What do you need?

Would the smell of my hair,
Or touch of my hand surfice?
Or prehaps solve everything?
Or do you need more?

Possibly the sound of my breath,
Could ease your beating heart;
Heavy and upset.

Or the taste of my lips against your own,
your neck,
your skin
- prehaps that could help to still your sense of unease,
Your certainty that nothing is quite how it should be.

And if not, my dear,
If all my attempts remain futile,
And lead to no bettering
The last I have to offer are my eyes.
Look deep, lover,
Pull me apart, piece by piece,
bit by bit
- and do not be frightened by what you see.
Until no doubt remains that you know every colour,
line and speck and space.

Then tell me, sweet one,
Is it all gone?

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

IN THE AFTER-TIME

" Alice thought she
had never seen such

a curious croquet
ground in all her life; "

It was somewheres near
Roswell

18 something and something
there or there...abouts

& Billy the Kid &
the boys have just

...paused:

in their croquet
for a tintype photo.

Billy's the guy
in the cardigan sweater.

Him & his gang
( the Regulators )

are posing like
they were a prototype

for
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

or the band
THE BAND.

Pure Americana.

Billy the cardi-cowboy and
his gang of croquet playing outlaws...

Not exactly how
one would have  somehow

imagined them
. . .passing the time.

One of the outlaw...eh...gentlemen

points out that
Billy

" . . .the Kid has spooned
his shot!"

A ricochet of tobacco coloured
spittle hits a spittoon.

Silence congeals
about the accusation.

Now, whether Billy has
merely pushed the ball

silently through rather than
soundly hit it

is:
neither here nor there.

A cold revolver
clicks &

"I says I hit it...I hit it
get it?"

The other gentleman outlaw
begs to agree.

"Ok, Billy boy...keep yer
cardi on!"

And so, we leave them
there

in the croquet craze of
1878.

Time like a yellow ball
hit through hoop after

hoop until: it arrives
at this

present...NOW!

And a photo found in a store
for a dollar or a few dollars more

repays the expense
by morphing into

the 5 million dollar
photo.

But I hit the ball
back through hoop after

hoop after hoop

until it arrives back
at Billy's boot.

And a voice cries:
"Ok, kid...play!"

I lie in silence cold to the touch, now life doesn't hurt so much. I tried to talk to someone but no one would hear. Now it doesn't matter anyway. I tried to find my way but I got lost, who will be left to say was I right. I only know that other things didn't work. I tried to speak but no one wanted to hear. Now it is quiet and I like it here. No one judges me, my pain is at an end. I don't have to cry anymore. All I know is that I am cold to the touch and now life doesn't hurt so much as I lie in silence.