is a trap
that i don't want to die in

I woke in the arms of the devil
where I'd found some sort
of sick comfort in his presence.

The warmth of a fire
that had left scars
on my hands,
but I'd found some sort
of sick pleasure in the pain.

The question on your mind
is not so easily answered
for the question itself
is incorrect.

It's not how does one fall
in love with evil,
for evil wears a sharp disguise.

It's how does one stay
in love with evil
once the mask slips?

He yelled sober thoughts when he drank.
Inked honest words when he wrote.
And if I had one wish,
I'd bring Bukowski back!

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

Supple and smooth, silky soft skin,
Sensual, secretive and seductive,
It curves, full of curvaceous curls,

Hips glisten and warm to the touch,
Flawless flesh full of flirtatious discovery,
Horizons hatch with moist mystery,

Lascivious legs luscious and long,
And there nesting was a stark naked message,
It was sculpted in lines shaped with skull bone,

At the source where beautiful Life is birthed,
Right there at the doors of delirious desires,
Death held seat on the throne of Life.

a poem for the presumed dead, French Hostage, Denis Allex*

An unmapped forest
grew upon chin
and cheek;
3 years in the making,
the no shaving,
helped to grow by
his tears from his crying.

Orange, orange,
orange again jumpsuit,
prisoner in the arms
of those whom shoot-
not to wound, but fire
with the intent to surround
and then to
close in
to cap a bullet for the ****.

Fire flares into the night
so phosphorous full
stops hail down, and on
the floor in front of the believers,
a paragraph shall form, with perfectly
placed punctuation;
detailing and listing
why they plucked this man
from a French farmhouse village,
and let him grow young,
in fear,
in this far, middle eastern haven.