(After Lorca)

Now in Vienna there are ten pretty women.
There's a shoulder where death comes to cry.
There's a lobby with nine hundred windows.
There's a tree where the doves go to die.
There's a piece that was torn from the morning,
and it hangs in the Gallery of Frost—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws.

I want you, I want you, I want you
on a chair with a dead magazine.
In the cave at the tip of the lily,
in some hallway where love's never been.
On a bed where the moon has been sweating,
in a cry filled with footsteps and sand—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take its broken waist in your hand.

This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
with its very own breath
of brandy and death,
dragging its tail in the sea.

There's a concert hall in Vienna
where your mouth had a thousand reviews.
There's a bar where the boys have stopped talking,
they've been sentenced to death by the blues.
Ah, but who is it climbs to your picture
with a garland of freshly cut tears?
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz, it's been dying for years.

There's an attic where children are playing,
where I've got to lie down with you soon,
in a dream of Hungarian lanterns,
in the mist of some sweet afternoon.
And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow,
all your sheep and your lilies of snow—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
with its "I'll never forget you, you know!"

And I'll dance with you in Vienna,
I'll be wearing a river's disguise.
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder
my mouth on the dew of your thighs.
And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss.
And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty,
my cheap violin and my cross.
And you'll carry me down on your dancing
to the pools that you lift on your wrist—
O my love, O my love
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
it's yours now. It's all that there is.

Dreams are an instant in reality when your mind pushes past the barriers of the mentally sane.
Dreams are not fake, they are real.
Dreams are your mind, processing the higher functions, and comprehending a higher reality.
I know this because I've done it.
I know this, because I pushed past that mental barrier, and I found you.
A girl that has only existed in my subconscious; my imagination...
A perfect girl.
I pushed into my dreams, and unlocked that higher reality, where that perfect girl exists.
That's where I am now.
That's why I have you.

When did I fall in love with you?
It's not a matter of "when" but rather "how".

I fell in love with the way headlights danced on your skin on the night drives home.
I fell in love with the way your smile set my world ablaze with light.
I fell in love with the way you held me close and kissed my cheeks ever so gently.
I fell in love with the way you looked at me at random times and smiled, then held my hand even tighter.
I fell in love with the way that I felt so safe wrapped in your arms.
I fell in love with the way you were open to me when all my past lovers had been closed off.
I fell in love with the way that my love for you made all my days bright and worth living.
I fell in love with the way that you were all I ever needed and wanted.
I fell in love with the way that everything was so easy and free
between us.
I fell in love with you, and to be truthful, I'm still falling.

m.h.

I

the river
                          soars
like sun white
horses galloping,
shimmering, glistening

the gallop a harmony
of cacophony
to my listening eyes

what an idyllic
                           sky pink-azure
bringing excellence to rest.
tomorrow the white river
horses will fly like jazz
to my listening eyes

II

half stuttered premonitions ease
at sight of indigo accented flowers.
                  in goat land, clouds turn
                  to white wisps of doves.
the mountain
                            is
                                   with us
a chipmunk at the summit
makes waves through the landscape
dancing like a tambourine

wishes and hopes curl
around my face enveloping
me in Washington air

I see you looking at the chipmunk
and smile like

          really nice,
          your
                    smile
                                is
          really really

          nice

Off                   comes my slip, socks, sanity and an echo
Goes                 up my spine.  
The                   men
Film                  my sinking heart  
And                  dive into the  
Filth                  plastered against my mind without a thought  
Of                      what moments define me.
That                  girl who used to wear a  
Shirt                  embroidered with flowers and had a mother  
Making             her a meal with love is now working the  
Room               with what's left of her.
For                    -ward motion depicts nothing
More                 than bones and memories never cherished.

She was mysterious, she was difficult to understand, but there was something about her that kept him wondering, he liked the color of her hair, and the way her veins reminded him of tree roots, which brought back memories of his grandfather, he had a pine tree outside his front porch, and when it slowly started to die he did too, they both went quick and peacefully, so they say, I don't believe so, but that's a whole different story. Her skin was always goose-bumped, and her eyes were more gray than blue. She seemed calm, like a downtempo piano love song, but if you push the right buttons she'll come undone and cause a disastrous tornado out of swear words and her middle fingers. She doesn't seem to give her heart away, but he's hoping he'd be lucky enough to have her wear her heart on her sleeve, and love him whenever she felt like. She comes and goes, like a fast moving freight train, and he's hoping to catch her before she's out of sight, before it's too late. She never stays long because she enjoys being like an enigma, she doesn't want anyone to understand her because that means she's one step closer to becoming normal. But he hopes that he can put the pieces of her heart together like a puzzle, and figure out her soul like it were a riddle. He always watches her trying to figure out a way to understand her because he is as determined as the little sailboat sailing across the ocean to get back home in a terrible storm. But she is the storm that keeps blowing him further away from home and the waves that are keeping in spinning in a circle. And she reads all the time to help her add to the mystery of her life, to pick up new words, new actions, and new ideas so that they never figure her put. She comes and goes, every time coming back with a new hair color and a new wardrobe, and of course a new attitude. He hopes that he can get to know her a little bit more every time she's around but every time she leaves she changes and he can never figure her out. He can't forget her, no matter what. He tries to forget her face, but it's like his eyes are Polaroids, and they snap pictures of her face over and over again, he's losing his mind. He needs to talk to this girl, he needs to at least figure out her name. He's forever misses her, in ways he cannot tell her. He misses seeing her walk into his work, he misses her scent, he misses the little things. If only she was his to hold, if only he could take a taste of her lips.  He wondered if she'd like taking walks to the lake, and maybe skipping rocks across the water, maybe getting to know her, maybe getting an extra hour to admire her dimpled cheeks, or her freckled nose. He can see the scars in her eyes, he wonders if she can see the scars in his too?¿ he wants to know who's killing her, does she want to know who's killing him too?¿ He realizes how alike they are, but he still hasn't figured her out. He doesn't realize that he doesn't even understand himself yet. He doesn't know how she looks at him or that she tries to piece together her heart like a puzzle also. He doesn't realize that he can't understand her because she doesn't understand herself. She knows that she can't discover who she is and she won't understand who he is but she can try all she might, reading the mystery books to help find ways to solve this challenging puzzle to discover what really goes on in his and her minds and heart. He doesn't realize that he's another puzzle and he just hasn't figured out how to open the box.