She rode by motorbike,
one bag and an oily rag swung
over the handle bars.
A little denim jacket and a lavender
scarf wrapped all around.
Her cheeks were charred
from the cold when she got to me
so I packed in kisses
to cool them down.

Get wise to me.
The sun will rise and you'll see
that this windy night
was no match for you and me.
Get wise to me.
When all the leaves are falling down,
when the wind makes a wicked sound,
we'll walk side by side.
Get wise to me.
When you see inside of me
you'll know what it means
to have a home in a heart.
Get wise to me.
Don't be as shy as me,
tell me how it is
and how it's going to be.

Over the rims of her thin, steel glasses comes the power.
The confident no, she loves to deliver over and over.
I've an itch.
I've got an anger.
I've a second story window.
I've a bottom-shelf bottle.
Study, study,
my little scholar,
but remember:
every student has a holiday,
and every underdog has a heyday.

He spat acid,
left you defaced,
******,
misplaced.

I sold lovelessness
to myself, left sweethearts
in sorrow,
in madness,
in a fury to find good arms.

And here we are,
your cold, detached facade
starting to melt,
and I lap it up,
hoping you never
find it again.

You wrap your arms around mine,
as we cross seas of parking lots
in the middle of the night,
and I don't know where the hell
we're going, but it feels so fine.

Your laugh
is the song of angels,
your touch is soothing,
and all your mistakes,
and all the exs,
and all the gods,
led me to you,
whether we bloom and burst,
wilt,
or ride the wind forever,
I'm just thankful to have found you.

"Purity vital."
I laughed and then spoke,
"****** from the start."

I always loved her best,
with her sharp pupils,
irises of oil,
her crimson hair
and
contagious smile,
but that didn't stop
my callused mind
from commanding her, "cease to feel",

but what a gift she gave in return,
the girl I've always loved best,
the first ache in months,
the first spill from my lids,
in a few years,
when she simply returned fire with,
"give me some rest."

Now, I sit calmly, tearing at my hair,
trying to figure which of my so-called friends
can get me to outer space,
for the duration of the rest of my years,
making my gnashing eternity go
down with a little more ease.

Anna,
the young lions won't want you
forever.

Eventually you are going to
get tired
of keeping it tight,
of batting your eyes,
of applying the gloss just right.

Anna,
what will you do when the invitation beds
come to an end?

Eventually the lions will settle,
while you gather cobweb and callus,
while you smoke cancer and wallow in cellulite.

Anna,
find a boy who makes you feel like the sun.

Ultimately,
he's the only one who can save your soul
from all the crimes you've done.

I met a woman at the laundromat,
six-foot tall in her flats.
She bore the scent of a bachelor's degree,
class C cigarettes and warm whiskey--

oh no,
here I go,
down to the river to cleanse my soul.

"My name is Tangerine," she splintered,
75 cents and a steady hand remembered.
I've got an incessant woman miles away,
but your proximity begs me to stay.

oh no,
here I go,
down to the river to cleanse my soul.

Tangerine had two crooked teeth,
a penchant for Plato seeped.
She was a batshit woman,
a bona fide tombstone,
an endless corridor,
and a paper bag dream.

oh no,
here I go,
down to the river to cleanse my soul.

In an idyllic garden behind Hank's old apartment,
Grace stumbled in high heels toward my then sturdy arms.
I'd finally gotten her drunk enough to notice,
and I was finally sober enough to appreciate.



Grace left before I woke in the morning.
I haven't seen her since.

That was 300 miles ago,
and a decade away from here.