never in my life
have I ever thought of it
but beneath my skin
is a skull

I feel the bone outline of my brow
the contour of my crooked nose
the catliage in my ear

horrible creatures they are
those vultures
my father ****** at 54
long in the ground

and feeling the bones
of my nose

sunrise is not guaranteed

wind and rain
stars and the sea
the lonely one
who left us here

created
those 8 mother ******
vultures
feasting on a dead deer

the griffons know the failure
of bones and flesh

and ice is forming
on the tips of my guardian angel's
wings
but the Nightingale sometimes
still sings
to me of you in dreams

and we'll meet again
at the end of time

and walk across the sun

my love.

i was watching
Shane's funeral

beautiful
and deservingly so

and i wondered
who would come to my funeral???

(debt collectors
police
2 x-wives
DEA)
(surely
i'm heading to purgatory)

perhaps she'll come
the woman who wants to be a mortician
i meant her at the liquor store

i answered her ad
in the A.P. press,
it read, as follows:

Female, a young 60
likes UFO stories
and exorcisms
loves to watch autopsies,
has a potato chip
that looks like D. Trump!
(not for sale)
will be in front of BY-WAY Liquor store
7 a.m. Tuesday. Gladys.

and one thing
led to another
SO,
here i am
and the the smoke
from the camp
fire's
burning my eyes
i'm on my 18th can
of miller light
Gladys and me
are looking for
UFO s

there's something beautiful
about tall buildings
and a dark street,
the vacant restaurants and stores

the drive-throughs
on their way to work
don't see it
don't feel you
don't hear your voice of desperation
or the screech from the garbage trucks
brakes

there's something beautiful
on the corner
of Dewitt and Springwood Ave

where there were dances
at the bingo hall,
the fist fights outside

and angels
with their eyes
whispered,
come hither,
and giggled softly

and with voices
like rain
and with a touch of regret
sang all the sad songs

I hear

the ghosts of Springwood and Dewitt
wailing
in search of hope or a prayer

or perhaps it's just the police
or an ambulance

there's something beautiful
about you,
dark avenue
of crossroads
where the hanged men are dump

and shotgun in my hands
i'm going to run down
that avenue of dead dreams

the revolution is at hand

wounded blackbird on a telephone wire
in a bright and hollow sky
searched for the lost cord.
his heart has betrayed him
and no longer will he fly.

she was a flower in bloom
gracing the noon day sun
both golden, as one

a cardinal vision, to one
captivated by her sight
to spiral in vertigo and swoon

as beauty was singular in this
all indications would lead to a kiss
in endless harmony and bliss

forces beyond their control
possessed their love to unfold
in the fullness of life’s country road

stirred coffee and cream do swirl
as they danced to a yin and yang world
then one last kiss for his breathless girl


-cec

i would give you
all the stars,
all the planets,
just to see that smile
again.

i sat in the rocking chair
in front of the window
expecting a long night.

"a broken nose and a broken heart,"
i whisper.

"and 2 black eyes,"
the moon tells me.

"she gives that smile,"
i tell the moon,
"i don't know
what it is
that little upturn
in the corners
of her mouth
no
maybe,
no
that isn't all of it,
a part,
maybe,
and her dark eyes
bright
like a streak of lightening
across a thunder clouded sky
beautiful and dangerous
and in a second,
gone and"

"funny,
what a man is willing
to die for, "interrupts the moon,
pauses
and then," love
is when the damsel
shoots
the werewolf
with a  silver bullet
holds his hairy paw
and looks into his
wolf eyes
and as the wolfman slowly
is turning human
the man
returns that love
you can see it in his blue eyes.
now,
that's, TRUE LOVE."

i put a cold can of beer
on a book of Neruda
love poems
a sacrilege
i know
so i kneel down
and pray
she will read this poem
i'm writing
and it will take her
to some
distant flowered field
but...

the poem never finished.
the letter never sent.
so i'm talking to the moon.