lay beside me on
a golden autumn morn,
your hair entangled
in my hair
your  hands entangled
in my hands.

though we never shared a lovers dance
my cheek was home with yours.
though we never  owned a moments grace
our ship may sail its course.

all tomorrows suffer
from beauty's faltered aim
whence we lay betwixt
things without a name.

sing me dearly
sing me sweet
sing me things
to cause retreat
and I will know
that its concrete
when sunlight hits
the street

but do not light a fire
on the face of winter
and do not burn
the masterpiece
or hide the ashes
in your urn

nor cause your hands a moments
idle
or burn your hair upon this old
candle

upon a golden
autumn morn
i watch you wake
with softened sleep,
upon a golden
autumn morn
with hands entangled
in my hair
an hair entangled
in your hands.

The sweat on my lip
brings this barometric memory
of heat and flesh
to the forefront.

Two fronts,
a Summer monsoon
where pale lightning plays
through reefs of golden cloud
circling an alabaster cliff
humming like live wires
with soft and hard design
with rain and sea spray.

The curve of your back
is a horizon.
The lines carved on your chest
are highways and slipstreams
above which gulls wing and wheel
below which mysteries are concealed.

And I sigh like thunder
to the softness of your storm
and I sigh like thunder,
to your silver screen embrace
I sigh like thunder.
I sigh like thunder.

I scoured countless streets
For an exorcist to rid me
Of your ghost.

The neon charlatans
Shapeshifted through
The spicy summer sweat
In forms of wasted witchery
And white hot shots of snake oil.

Each a silver bullet,
Swarming upon me as vultures
To peck the stains of yesteryear
That lingers like the promise
Of cool autumn air.

And now that all evenings have shrunk,
And all shameful charlatans revealed,
I find myself once again
Dancing with your ghost;
A man haunted.

The loneliness of bars leaves me wanting, the beauties walk in, silent, and I'm taken by the sensuality of wine on a warm summer night. Your scent comes riding on the wind, and I pause for effect or rapture. I don't know which.

Another cigarette,
Another glass
another night alone.
More memories to fuel the fire
one more sin to atone.

The waitress smiles with sharp delight
As she braves the plastic night,
the workers work,the talkers talk,
the dead lie quiet in peace.
I question where I went wrong,
Did I play the part too real?
And if this is was the very case
did I make the audience feel?

But none of this, in any case
can recall that final kiss,
the way you melted with a sigh
and caused the sheets to hiss.

Maybe one more glass will ease the end
of questions such as this.

We graced the morning
after wandering
one way antique streets
your pain and comfort found themselves
unwrapped from all deceit.

All you were and all you are
From your head down to your feet
called to me through rising dawn
stung with personal defeat.
And I wished that you would smile,
I prayed that you would laugh
sans misery or grief,
The way you did as we once wandered
antique one way streets.

And I know you seek redemption.
with an eye locked on belief,
And you know I love the way you looked
When the sunset kissed your cheeks.
I was silenced by beauty then,
my words were obsolete
the poets purpose put away
down antique one way streets.

I cannot write like Cohen
Or Cave, Blake or Swift
but all your inner knowings
held me in the heat
and all I ever wanted
is to never feel defeat.

But this I'll know,
and this I'll want
till time starts to retreat.
If I could take away your pain
as I know you know my grief;
I would hold you as I did that day
down antique one way streets.

This morning is a picture postcard of our first ****.
Sweaty and enclosed
a symbolic fan dawdles slowly
over our youthful bodies;
Velvet with electricity.

I can still feel the starch strength of your hair,
read the invitation on your lips
(the only novel written solely for me)
and ignore the gooseflesh as I recall the magic of
your perfume from the deepest, darkest past.

Your mystery was forged out of the shade
which followed early mornings,
cool like gold covered ice,
sometimes we drank the Sun's wine
from the Sun's cups
and your ******* were bared to the sleeping city
pale and luminous as two alien moons
while overhead the early birds sang their song.

Now you live in the future,
as so many others do,
and I am left here;
with a faded blue rose
who's perfume has fled and now smells of old velvet.