The bank account overdrawn,
the west coast -- naked, easy --
passenger seat and head resting on cold glass,
seeing the pines turn to ash to evergreen to redwoods to sand.

I bit her ear and asked for her name,
in Before George's sanctuary,
blush, blushing -- finger to lips hushing,
drinking cognac and speaking in flaming coal
I saw the clouds behind the night sky,
I saw Jesus teach himself to fly,
and I hallelujah'd and amen'd and carried
her to the shore, Samantha, she said,
bulging mind,
anorexic action,
I bit her ear and asked her room number,
in the ocean's frontline,
hush, hushing -- backs of hands and blushing,
drinking cognac and speaking in simmering oil
I saw the night behind the clouded sky,
I saw a fly transfigure into Jesus,
and I hallelujah'd and amen'd and frayed
the remnants of grassroot and buttercup,
drunk high tide,
sober dry iced,

The bank account cleared its throat,
"Room 210 and I'd like a ***** and coke."

General Patton and droppers
in between the cushions of couch,
in between the ceiling fan and carpeted wasteland,
in between nirvana and judgement day,
heavy, heavy,
I lost my way --
I Dug the Pony,
I Luft the 99th Balloon,
I was a Carpenter and You were a Lady,
in between sheets,
in between seams,
in between nail and crucifix,
heavy, heavy,
I dug in and stayed --
I wedding banded,
I honeymooned,
I threshold,
in between purgatory and heavenly blur,
in between intersection and parallel,
in between watercolor and pastel,
heavy, heavy.

Anna and I leave Jesus on the cross, on the jumbotron.
The blood pooled. The blood cooled. The bloodbath cleansed the flock.
I watch Anna from the passenger seat.
She's silent and salvation.
Rain falls in diamonds on the windshield,
bouquets of streetlights turn the transparents
to rubies, to emeralds.
She turns off the headlights.
Running half-blind on abandoned interstate,
Anna's silent, Anna's grace, Anna's forgiveness.
No more lamps overhead.
No more exits to be found.
Only Anna and I at peace in the void.

You took a picture of your left eye,
you wrote a poem about a "blank canvas",
you said I didn't have a keen enough mind.

I decided to get a studio apartment.

Anna's got unsavory passion for heavy brows and bent lips.
She used to tell me, "Baby, you're so strong."
From the top of the spiral stairs, she'd sing songs.
I never felt comfortable, but I'd hum along.
The beer got cheap.
My sorrows got expensive.
The first of December, the blackbird, the rent check,
and chicken scrawl sent her into the snow.
I watched through gap'd fence.
I watched through portal
while Anna danced barefooted with a politician
who looked like Dylan Thomas, but spoke like
Don Juan.
What a wicked woman.
What a ******* cacophony.
What an icy wind.
What a fever dream.

I told you, I don't want that kind of girl.
The way she bent the strobe- and the moonlight,
the way she kept telling me to shut up,
the way her heels acted like asterisks --
Marie, she ain't my kind of girl.

I told you, I'm just waiting for my head to clear.
I need fall to end the crow and vulture's flight.
I need to get unkempt and shut-in.
I need the pills to pull hat tricks --
Marie, I need a few more weeks.

I told you, my body's not ready.
I'd love to defend the howl and hiss of night.
I'd love split rent and shudder skin.
I'd love the pushups and matchsticks --
In the spring.

I promise, Marie.

Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll
laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions.
MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone
directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ******.

Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus
waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North".
At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress,
laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums.
Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan
while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs.
Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom,
while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement.
Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises,
but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.