The genius sheds his skin
beneath the weeping yew trees.
The stars bleed symphonies
into the night sky
and he is whole,
for the first time in his life.

The girl shakes little flakes of doubt
from the tips of her shaking fingers,
allowing it to fall to the forgiving earth.
She loves with an empty head
as chemical reactions combust
within her mortal veins,
and she is whole
for the first time in her life.

Your place is the bed
Only leave for the kitchen
Make me a sandwich

I dug a little too far into myself and ended up staring at you

I drove past your shore house today
It's not at all how I remember it
Instead of a well-kept, bright exterior
Paint was chipping
Windows were cracked
Sand had blown up on the porch
I peeked in the windows
But there was little to see
In the shadows
Other than broken promises
And half-assed repair jobs
That hadn't fooled anyone in years

Louis took a cold shower
after sleeping in all afternoon,
thinking about those sweaty
summer bedsheets from last year.
Her skin was always soft
and he used to run his thumb
downward along her hip-bone,
setting vibrations along fault-lines
and stifling any sound with a kiss.

He turned on the radio
and brushed his teeth, removing
the taste of sleeping pills and
last night's cigar.
A mono-brow was forming beautifully
and he had finally grown a beard.
Now it's beer for dinner,
wine for dessert, and John Coltrane
rasping loneliness in stereo.

Louis admired his backside
with the retractable mirror,
reminding himself that old lovers
could never forget that ***.
He reminded himself of his poetry,
his dog; his back-catalogue trivia
of white-boy lyrics was sure
to make him a desired object,
far away from her loving arms.

He turned on the ceiling fan
and dried out to the jingles and adverts
that interceded the music
he'd never cared to listen to before.
The sad guitar and Indonesian flute
spun webs of memories in hypnotic
circles, keeping pace with the motor above.

The picture ran clear in the half-lit room.
Louis burned all his notebooks,
for all the good it would do.

The screen is a madhouse
of body-building, ego-boosting,
and bad gig recordings.

I see her bronzing in the beach,
applying lotion and laughing
with a new friend.

I'm still stuck in the snow,
watching her skirt in the breeze.
I chain coffee in the morning

to counter sobriety,
to show that I know her more
than just by the light of the moon.

In sunglasses, we'll meet somewhere
neutral; an escape route to run
if the patient becomes lunatic again.

She'll administer the pill
from her pockets to ensure I'll flat-line
through her absences,

and then resurrect when she's lost her
appetite. Far away from this
selfish depression, I dream

of us painting a wall. Nothing dies
when it is made into memory;
nothing lives without your early morning call.

If you had seen the poems I'd written,
left closed in a drawer,
or else in an envelope unsent,
you would lay down your tools
and cynicism, for in me;
there can be no risk.

If you had heard my words of silence,
as I troubled the streets,
forming ways to display my longing,
you would lay down your drink,
for I would hold you
into sleep.

Summer arrives
in animation of limb,
to ramble the forest,
to reflect upon sin.
I keep smoking cigarettes
in the drunk-talk of friends,
I will kiss her on the cheek,
I will slur to her
my amends.
Summer arrives
in the advent of love,
I will settle my debts
with the great skies above.

I had a lover in Calgary
who used to paint the mountains.
She was all words
and no ***, and so I was bound
to hurt her eventually.

I had a lover in Monteverde.
We would take the sky walk to the clouds
and lighten heads with wine.
I could never stand out from the beauty
that surrounded us.

I had a lover in Chernobyl
who used to collect children's shoes.
She was all memory
and no life, living in the fallout
of love and love's decay.

I had a lover in Alice Springs.
We would **** and drink in her shanty house
and argue through till morn.
I could never stand the sight of sorrow
and aboriginal rust.

I had a lover in every country.
They kept me from the sports news with gifts
of poets and good music.
For all the kindness they had offered,
I never had a speck to give in return.