A song of shell and thunder whistles past my ear
the crack of distant laughter, empty and hollow,
your voice amid the terror stands out to me so clear
while heavy shrapnel nestles between my ribs.

"Mother of God!" one cries out in horror -
and clammy hands reaching for the collar of my shirt,
tugging, ripping, sending buttons flying steep as bullets,
for  frightened boys to burrow into my chest and pull out the lead.

Your eyes are focused in the blur, a raging sea of darkest green
bewildered at the sight of a deep red river
pouring towards the valley of my hip, the small dip between
bone and muscle, obscenely pooling like a strange lake;

Inviting you for a swim, had the barrel of a German gun then
missed its mark and pointed left; alas, I sit
and bleed to death underneath your fear-stained gaze; I apologize
and in the haze I lift my arm to gently graze the dried mud on your cheek.

The trench has lost another light, or what was left of its sorry embers;
I pray you will sleep sound tonight, ears shut tight from
screaming, laughing, crying, dying - just think,
if it bears not too much pain, of my love, and speak my name when

My mother asks about her son - with steady voice you tell her
that with a smile on my lips and a warmth in my breast
I thought of her, and passed on.

like blood, it drips
the honey from your lips
running along
the gentle curve of your neck
the sharp edge of your collarbone
between the heart and ribs
down and further
pooling on Venus

the water swirls your hair
pearls on your silken skin
the love in your eyes
hooded, dilated
colors bursting from their seams
and hot as cold
violets blossoming in the night
rose buds perking, opening
as does the cave of your mouth

I sink
deeper and slower
into emerald
and turquoise so dark
it's almost black
the water claiming me
finally, as it should
pressuring my lungs to collapse
under the lightest weight
engulfed in deep blue
love

Layers and layers and layers
of people, cars, buildings
the Big Apple
one giant parfait
loved by the rich
too expensive for the poor
a little for a lot
and the waiter smiles
fake and shallow
as he hands them the dessert
without them knowing he spat into it
and sprinkled it with the dust
of his bombed apartment on 64th
which lies in the past of another
bank
another office
another yoga oasis
another Apple parfait
for the rich

“I love you” in its kaleidoscope dress dances
like sunshine upon the waves -
does it remind you of something?
Does it remind you of me, my love,
as I sit here and write and break my heart over
entertaining a fantasy;

For you to say my name, just once - just once -
to hear your gentle breath exclaim this personal ecstasy of mine,
this declaration of victory that yes, I am myself!
Finally, instantly -
just one word from your lips - this word - and the fever of
battle inside me rages,
the body ready to swim all seas and win all wars,
to tear up all earth just
for you -
to find you, my lover, yes,
to return to a home of you.
I promise I will, and forever more I shall,
in exchange for the sound of
your rose water perfumed voice
caressing the essence of my Self.

I could
spin this song forever
let it wash endlessly
through the streets of the world, just to
declare my love for you,
just to shout your name into the night
or sing it as gracefully as I could
to infect every heart and ear with my feeling,
this emotion that overpowers me,
makes me crumble, fall to my feet,
lift my voice to highest praise, a taste unfamiliar to my mouth;
praise does not come so easily to me as the blade to a throat.
So have I not done enough to prove myself to you?
Have I not given all my heart, and all my soul, too -

Still no word. No answer.
The hunger inside my heart throws me forward,
edges me closer to the abyss,
the forlorn nothing, the never-ending absence,
a loveless mist to swallow me forever,
and you, my only savior, looking on,
your face a stone-cold mask.
You don’t want to let me in.
Don’t take my hand - for I could pull you down with me,
couldn’t I, my love?
The only power I possess is destruction.
This fragile bird of ours,
I swallow it whole between gnashing teeth,
and snap the neck of delicacy with the careless tongue
of unrequited love.

And who am I, after all,
but covered in dirt and blood, kneeling
at the altar of your love,
begging for my life as if
all the wars and battles won
matter nothing now. Perhaps they don’t -
what good is honor to me if
you crush it with one bare foot?
What good are strength and death and victory if
I was never destined to succeed in the king’s battle -
the last stand my heart could take, only to
lose the fight?
I have died more viciously by the sharp cut of your cool shoulder,
my love,
than I have ever hurt at the hands of a thousand men.

I, warlike, once a God,
wounded and fallen, now,
collapsed without dignity at your feet,
pleading for mercy
and crying, with every sense of emotion,
“I love you.”

the sea as a reincarnation
reinvented by every soul that’s ever walked this earth
salt of the water tasting different to every mouth
waves roaring, breaking, whispering, blue, green, black
amidst them their lovers, their enemies
navy romantics and the art of drowning
a death at sea is like no death at all
the body just disappears, never to be found again
two lovers conquering the water,
the rebellious violent brutal cold salty water
they are but men, perfecting their craft
they are at swim, two boys.

1
What is Earth but your shell?
But the sweetest comfort found in a bed of moss,
welcoming and warm,
soft dark green,
the fragrance of motherly earth misted on this everlasting pillow,
inviting you to eternal slumber -

Would you grant me just a minute,
a gently sweeping, dreaming moment of rest
under your cover of moss and twigs
(that is to say your skin and ribs)
and would you tuck me in with your rose petal lips pressed to my cheek,
your honeysuckle tongue flicking playfully as you laugh,
the sweet-voiced laughter of faeries and pixies,
as only you know how to coax out of your golden throat,
your lavender fingers grazing my jaw and eyelids, my cupid’s bow
hungrily asking for more, silently -

Here in this honeymoon suite of mosses,
the morning dew yet still shining on your nose -
a starry sky of freckles, a heaven on its own -
I lay my head in your lap as gently as a leaf on the wind,
barely felt,
barely there at all -


2
Buried deep inside,
deep, deep beneath the first and second and fifth layer of Earth,
where Mother Nature holds her own heart and takes a bite of it, too -
where Father Sun cannot reach anymore and
only roots snake through the soil,
this is where I lay and wait for your return come spring.
The shell falling asleep above me and
the fires of Earth’s core lively dancing underneath…
Here I make my bed to lie and expect in,
to humbly await as your lavender fingers take roots anew
and grow attached to your leafy body, watery yet wooden,
fragrant in the night of my soil.

When will you return to me, my heart’s desire?
To end my winter and invite spring, summer,
autumn all at once,
a raging storm of emotional seasons and none are too much to hold
for the strong Earth keeps them caged in and safe,
untouched by the outer world -
no fire or sea or thunder fit to taint them.

Please come back soon and put your elven dagger to the ravenous throat of my cold
       lonesomeness.

I exist between here and the deep blue sea;
here, and the olive tree;
between water and mango.
I sign letters in another's name
to profess my love to you;
like lilac in wind and rain
I endure.

Like rosehips in a summer breeze
swaying in their gentle dance -
bending to the higher force
in devoted trance.

And my love is wild and wicked
as a thicket of thorned roses;
my heart, that hungry, livid thing
twists itself in painful poses
at the mere sight of your face.

What is a soul when split in two,
if not a home to return to?

What is your gentle, tender touch
if not the ultimate reward,
a dream come true, an ache for more -
the yearning for "la petite mort".

I want to touch you like the ocean
crashing against a rocky shore.
I want to taste you like Eve
taking the first bite of sweetness.
I want to see you, hear you sing,
watch you throw yourself into the fire
of the night, the heat surrounding
your naked body, and mine.

I want to hold your legs apart
and flick my tongue against ripe fruit,
a peach-furry, strange delight,
red and eager, biting back,
licking scratching opening, not
in defense, but pleasure.

I exist between here and the deep blue sea;
between here, and the olive tree;
between thigh and hip.
I sign letters in another's name
to profess my love to you;
like a hummingbird at sunrise
I want to drink the morning dew.

my hands are *****
as is my mind
as is my record
my hands are covered in earth

he tripped
not once, not twice
promised the wrong
he slipped
fell
stayed down

they made sure he'd stay down
taken from his son
his life, his place
his right
to watch the forsythias bloom
when they spring with yellow and hope

your boy is coming for you
coming to get you out
take you home
tuck you in
throw away your bottles
as they scream for you from the south

They grant him one wish
facing his fate in a cell
and he wants to see the forsythias bloom
and one blossom
blinks her eyes
with freedom

I remember us stealing our daddy's car
we drove at night, your dress black as tar
went to the beach and you screamed freedom
like a dog howling at the midnight moon

The street burned hot in the midday's sun
and in the church down the road the sermon's begun
remember how they wouldn't let you in no more
because of the floral skirts you wore
and never got quite rid of the stench
of the *** that you smoked on our front porch bench

You never managed to hold down a job
never worked a day, cause you got lost
in words of beauty, your own poetry
even wrote a little something for good ol' daddy

I don't know myself anymore
I am so sleep-deprived
I don't remember what a dream is
I think I live in one

I am so alone
yet you keep me company
I am so sleep-deprived
you think and decide for me

I am not in control
we have ten fights a night
I went straight for your ear
there is no light, no light anymore

I am so sleep-deprived
everything's a copy of a copy of a copy
this is my life - your life?
I am so alone
yet you keep me company

I hit you as hard as I could.

Has the pain
not been enough
after I left you,
crawling on skinned hands and knees,
ribcage open,
heart bare, bleeding out,
exposing the shallow grave you dug
for yourself
to nestle and rest in
forever, for
as long as I breathe?
Just below the torn,
worn skin,
barely concealed and ever present,
never to be forgotten for you are,
still,
alive in my head

Death carries
no meaning here,
where you
and I
lay,
on our battlefield of blood spilled
and souls lost,
minds lost,
bodies lost in the abyss of
man’s darkness and
cruelty.

The depth of hatred can
only be matched to
the depth of love,
two halves of the same,
in your blood and mine
we lie as one.

Never reach for me again.

Poem written waiting outside the club
that my brother and I frequent
together -
scene:
a hundred mouths breathe clouds
into the biting air,
cold of a Friday night
security at the door, screaming
a sea of voices asking
"can you take me in with you? I'm not old enough"
and the growling of boys half drunk
already
my brother tall, pushed against me

Poem written at the back of the club
that my brother and I frequent
together -
and scene:
us, scouring the dancefloor together
us, drinking ***** lemon on the sidelines
us, stretching necks to see if we
know anyone in here,
half-poised to
escape
should we need to
(we don't want to see others)

Poem written standing at the bar
that my brother and I
frequent together -
this scene:
spilled on the dark, chipped wood
euro bills
sticky cocktails
nose blood
and my hand, washed
in the mix
of liquids
it is 2 a.m.

Poem written waiting outside the toilets
that my brother and I
frequent
apart -
now, scene:
him, nowhere to be found
line, endless
girls, loud and crying, laughing
and my foot tapping
nervously
to the bass that makes
the walls vibrate
and shake

Poem written in the parking lot of the club
that my brother and I
just squeezed out of -
last scene:
him, sober, hands on steering wheel
my eyes, unfocused, trained on
the electric blue of his car radio
playing our after-club mix
coming down, silently
no words between us
only deep-bassed beats
and intoxicated breath
our minds as spent
and exhausted

In the forest late one summer day,
between the trees and prams,
a sweet girl whistled a small tune
that made the rabbits dance.

They danced and hopped and frinked about
and it was all quite nice
until the Wankerschmacken came
and brought a plague of Braifs.

The Braifs, they danced and frinked as well
and grew and grew in size
until they grew to twelve feet tall
much to the girl’s surprise.

The Wankerschmacken watched with glee,
with joyous hate and hunger,
the rabbits, the girl, they were confused
as they stared down the Schmacken’s flanger.
The flanger was his mouth, of course,
filled with teeth like daggers,
and the beast lunged after the poor girl
who through the forest yaggered.

She yaggered and ran and over a root
she suddenly fell and cried;
The Wankerschmacken took his chance
and this is how she died:

The monster opened its flanger large,
its throat was charcoal black;
A blue tongue stretched and grabbed the girl
and hurled her into its depths.

She fell for an eternity,
she seemed to fall for years;
And in its stomach she cried and cried
and drowned in her own tears.

A century has come and gone
since this cold-blooded ****
but if you put your ear to the woods
you can hear the Schmacken still.

It snores and roars deep in its sleep;
Can you smell its rotten breath?
but once you do it is too late –

You will die a vicious death.

You and I, handcrafted in lust,
borne of sea and blood -
you, of Aphrodite,
and I, of Ares.
The violence of your love
destined to be matched only
by the tenderness of my violence.

And my hands, war-given, strong,
made for battle,
grow soft at your hips, and
softer yet at the cliff of your thighs,
as they crash softly in the bay in-between.
And how these hands long for you, my child of goddess,

long for you like the armor of my chest longs
for your sweet mouth,
longs for your gentle fingertips
in the calm before the storm.
The passion of your tenderness a momentary reprieve
before I go to war;

and when I go, oh, the power that overcomes me,
and the weapons I will bring,
and the blood I will draw.
In the fashion of my father, as he tied Aphrodite's hair
in his fist, and
as he broke down her barriers, claiming her city,
her temple,
her soul.

The lullaby of her moans
reminiscent in your voice,
my favorite sound and
my chosen battle cry.

The land of milk and honey
is liquid again -
all rivers flowing, all
summer winds blowing, all
leaves green and fresh

if there is
a price for love, a price for your touch,
I'll gladly pay the Pharaoh,
I'll gladly be the crutch for
all his wise men and oracles,
all his wives and daughters and sons

I'll carry their burdens with joy,
every day, night for night,
spurned on by the promise of
your lips, your thighs,
your honeysuckle skin, your
rose colored hair, your
sun-kissed face, the spots dancing on your nose.

In the land of milk and honey
I found my worship in its rivers,
its seas of gold and pearl,
its lap that's filled with lilacs and rosehips,
and I will kiss you good morning until
the sun doesn't rise and
the stars don't shine and
the moon doesn't watch our prayers at night anymore.

With the open gates of Babylon
the holy flood poured on and on
through frond-covered stone ways
on grieving Palm Sunday
and the ****** water endlessly rushed
as if turned to wine by Jesus's touch

we were his disciples but behaved like sinners
he walked on water as we took from the rich
the godless romans were quick to condemn us
thus Jesus was crucified for being a witch

they set our stakes ablaze in the night
the darkness enflamed by unholy light
covered our heads with white cotton hoods
and barefoot we stumbled through dusk-silenced woods
we could hear the flames crack like whips in the dark
as they reached for us who were blessed with death's mark.

Holy, black typewriter, frenzied,
spits out strangers’ love letters, desperate, the ink band half dried
(but ultimately returns to its grave of  dust).
Withered books, yellow pages carelessly leafed through, devoured
(pay no heed to the traffic - walk and read),
falling from one pain into the next;
such are beginning and middle of these days...
And benzedrine fever dreams are fleeting,
as elusive as great insane private revelations
mentioning Ginsberg and Hendrix by name
- a swirling fata morgana of Buddha, Dharma, cult,
and a thousand angelic punks, punk angels, safety-pin-winged,
dreams about Neal and I (not I) being cops -
revealed to my hands in a crazy stupor, darkening and
illuminating the whole café, unaware-

and I know that Marlon knows a jeweler, knows
his hands -
how does that fit in here?

These days waste by, racing, crash-trickling like waterfalls,
like the Niagara Falls that made Joe cry -
and now I watch him cry,
shamelessly, inconsolable in the face of beauty,
crying like he’s never seen water,
as he hands me another case - Morpho menelaus -
dead, killed, (killed on Denver roads), escaping freedom
in the giant hands of a not-so-average Joe (secret hero of this poem),
his eyes glued on life, and full of tears
and his dad didn’t want a daughter neither, wanted no children at all-
And down in Mexico (where he is now, or was last)
the plywood violin plays the open-highway-blues
for a not-so-sober Jack who loves and hates and loses.
Somewhere amid the British-American chaos: a pair of twins
suffered at the hands of their mother,
suddenly forgotten on the road...

Speaking of “mother”: Soon I’ll miss a wedding, and
- come to think of it - so will Jack, won’t he,
the other one,
with his red lips and olive green canvas, with his
made-in-vietnam imitation of
father Dunkirk’s blood, fallen soldier, 1916 Jesus didn’t rise -
How to lose my mind positively, flush out the memories?
Swimming at midnight: the cold lake homely in my bones
all washed over by iodine-orange water.
Mark hums sweet country tunes, wheat between his lips, "hey la, my boyfriend's back" -
and the sun never sets
and the coffee is always cold
and all the pages are black.
And Springsteen lies on the nightstand, his spine turned to me,
sharing his makeshift bed with Kerouac and butterflies, and

a cruel storm of stories that sends my head spinning
makes it so that - unable to form in the hurricane -
poems cower in the back of my throat
like predators waiting to jump on their prey, and -
any minute now, I beg them, any moment-
but they shake their Rottweiler heads and bare their crocodile teeth,
taunting me, saying
that the wordy intelligence of others dumbs me down,
burns me out, charcoals my brain with the soot,
leaves me without originality; no
mind for my own words, no
regard for the verses crying to happen, only
the need to write, write, write,
stupidly, like a dog is forced by instinct,
the insatiable need to spill, to transform, to twist, distort, to prophesy, to-

Some  journal entry reads: healthy coping. Think:
Growth is inevitable.
God is inevitable!
Pain, and fury, and love, are inevitable! Luck -
To take this earth and make it yours,
this oyster,
and realize that it’s also everyone else’s;
(boys, no, kings of summer)
inevitably working together to create beauty,
only one glass case away from bewitching your living room,
from taking its seat right beneath the busy hand of God
and hold up the mirror:
this beauty was you all along. And me. And Him,
and everyone else.
This Father wanted a Son, wanted a daughter, even,
and,
suddenly,
this close to the face and hand and chest of God,
the old fear of 23 turns into excitement
with all our eyes, full of tears, glued on life -
still,
even now -

my church is a lake
the great big rippling dark green its hall
and the tree on the other side
(the big one with the slit in its trunk,
for the sun (God) to shine through)
is its altar
and I can hear Him speak as
the wind that rustles the leaves

a thousand brilliant-green leaves
shaking in His gentle breath
the branches studded with angels
His children that dance as spots of sunlight
on the leaves, on the water, on my head
and Emilio in the freckles on my shoulders

the lake is my church
I float in the water and pray
to God with my arms wide open, I pray
for you
to drift into my embrace
so I will never let you go;
I will never let you go.

Your love
is in the blood
running through their veins
dripping from their hands
the voice
roaring out of their throats
the metal
armoring and wounding bodies.

Your love
pulsates in their wrists
beats in their chests
hot and passionate
uttered in everlasting violence
and tears falling for fallen ones.

But most of all your love
is destiny,
their destiny
the calling they answer
the home they return to
you.
Ares, you.

Here, starry, open road
   the promise of finding God or Yahweh or Buddha
   on the highway,
the roof down, wind in our hair and dirt,
   red sand of the canyon vast around us, setting sun and personal American dream,
   drifting further into your arms and our souls mile by mile,
the burning blue of the sky ahead, inflamed by all the reds and oranges the dying sun can
    possibly bleed,
and my hand, drifting on the driving wind,
   finds its way into your heat-swept hair, soft and dark and handsome,
   all memory of cold end of '47 erased in the face of your warmth
as we fly down the street -
   I'm sorry I only gave us six decades,
   I would have aimed for more if I'd known about your untimely nightfall…
-but this Cadillac is stolen, fast, free and green;
   wheels burning hot in their devotion to carry us anywhere,  
   the leather backseat our warm and welcome marital bed,
for this, surely, is our honeymoon -
Yes, indeed, we got engaged in that small cot in Harlem,
   said "I do" on the cool, cracked asphalt of some nightly Texan road.
You promised me forever,
   swore me eternal love & friendship in your own voice,
  with your own words -
     the sweet, darkest-soul-illuminating true Western twang of your blue-eyed,
     full-and-clear-hearted vow.
What of it now?
   Where your voice? Where your face, your knees, your hands -
   Where your shoulders made strong by carrying all of
   America?
   Where your feet glued to gas pedals and roadside sand,
   where your soles -
Where your soul but up in Heaven, surely?
   Up in Heaven…

And us - him, me, her -
   left behind, to drown in ***** or go mad with longing,
   to be forgotten by the dead.
And nothing of you now
   but highway ashes and lovesick poems, black-and-white camera roll…

Pointy nose, freckled bridge
Fair creme skin, speckled lips
Dark green eyes under dotted lids
Flaming hair weaves around your neck
and polka shoulders

Warm emotion sits in your cheeks
Stubborn chaos to your teeth
Roaring throat behind bowed lips
Willpower in raw fingertips
palms so rough from housework

Sturdy arms and steady legs
Robust frame to birthing hips
Heart of fire in its thick-walled cage
beats for me so strong and brave.

the tide, a never-ending olive green
the advance made silently in
the pitch black night,
dark as the leather on their feet.

wading through the water
a muddy yellow tinged with blood
dripping like machine gun fire
opened fire in the jungle thicket

the river is full of them
treading panic water  to escape
treading on landmines -
little pots of death leaving crates,
cutting arms, legs, limbs gone,
lost in the panic water

soldiers in the river,
men in the panic water,
friends in the throes of death
clinging to each other,
kissing olive canvas with red lips
"Tell my girl I love her if I don't make it back!"
holding each other while holding their breath
listening, listening for the next agent to fall
like rain

and orange the rain on viet cong,
the american hatred dropping like bombs,
on ferns and palm trees losing their green
on children losing their voices from all the screaming and crying
their fathers tired of fighting and hanging loose
like landmine limbs,
in the reeds by the river,
waiting for death.

I sit and look out the window
at expensive houses and trees
two seats just for me
and the umbrella between my knees

I do not anticipate rain anymore
father sun, that face of God
flashes a smile on a spot
of the road where all lie shot

in the chest by arrows of love
from summer's bow, this cupid,
dogs wag their tails in humid
heat, someone spits out fruit pits.

heavy clouds of thunder still
linger in the humming air,
filled with noise and
Jesus' voice, whispering:
"You're almost there."

Living in your car
you had nothing but yourself
no one there to love you
no one but yourself

You hide behind
a curtain of glass
every night before you
get in the ring

You break your bones for fun
they want to see your nose bleed
cuts and bruises all over your back
is what keeps them entertained
They pay good money for your show
though they always bet on your rivals
it's not enough to make a living
but it's not too little to **** you either

Bleached your hair again
cover up the grey
your daughter won't recognize you
you haven't seen her in days

You wake up in your car
you wish you could die
you limp to the gym
because you have a show tonight

You hide behind
bottled-up feelings
right before you
get in the ring
to die again and again
every night
to stay alive
and keep them entertained.

Like a car accident, the crashing
of a seed into soil
(from there comes an offspring -
at 9, she wants to be like you)

your weeds rising into the air
ready to cover a whole field
with its fragrance

and shooting
your shot toward the sky,
the bloom of this flower
nodding its head in the sun,
entranced by its visions and
green power

There are no mirrors in your way
so you wouldn't know but
Richard -
you are so beautiful.

San Francisco, 1977
I sat by my window and listened
to the crying of Carlos Santana and the wind
His guitar told stories
of home in México and how he yearned for it
and the wind kept howling along
as if it tried to bring him back
and I wished for Carlos to be home
and I wished for the wind to carry him there
and I wished for myself to be somewhere else
where the city isn't as big
and the people aren't as greedy
and the love comes naturally, not for fifty bucks a night

So I sat by my window
and listened to the sound of Santana's guitar
and the wind crying
and I understood
as I wept along.

The sun stood high in a spotless blue sky,
the pool water cool on my skin;
your skin shone with sweat and I seemed to forget
the nightmare that I was trapped in.

That oh so cruel sun of Greece shone on,
never once thought to pause;
it looked down at us as your hands, oh so rough,
collided with my bruised jaw.

Summer went fleeting like every new beating,
it was over soon after begun;
you pulled on my hair and threw me into despair,
and the radio, carefree, played on.

under a blood red moon
the sea is calling
screaming, roaring,
for me to drown

to run into the cruel dark waves
let them overcome me
flush through my insides
and I won't fight, I'll
lose the war willingly
surrender to the deep black sea

ice-cold and merciless
a soul-crushing mistress
devastating, relentless
it almost feels like loving
her

Clad in plaid and leather, silver
drenched in blood
fingers gracefully extended
to pull the trigger,
jump the gun -

Back to back,
shoulder to shoulder,
hand-to-hand
combat
with each other, with the reaper

This ménage-à-trois
- brother - brother - Death -
encircled in an endless dance,
scowling like wolves,
gnashing blades like teeth,
growling like gunfire

one stretches his arm
and reaches into Hell
a sharp intake of breath, thick
like demonic blood -
his hand gripping the other one tight

by the shoulder -
handprint burnt into his flesh already
from decades of dance rehearsal,
always dancing, always getting tired -

the two as one
and the Holy Ghost of Death between,
this third, silent party
ever-observing, winding between their bodies,
slick and oily -
cunning Death is a slippery eel.

Cheek to cheek
their tears mingling
as they whisper the steps to each other,
useless reminders of
‘I’m sorry’
‘Goodbye’
‘I love you’
‘I can’t be without-’

and one! Death kicks his leg
a sharp stab to the chest,
the heart underneath slowing to the rhythm
of tango dying in the spotlight…

and two! one brother picks up the speed,
carries his partner through the routine,
an arm
elegantly draped around
a neck,
half-carried, half-dragged through this dance,
each foot-fall heavier than the one before,

and three… the violins stop screeching
their violent delight,
all eyes carefully trained on the dancers,
warm blood trickling between their lips,
barely touching,
hot breath visible in the cold black
surrounding their heads.

Death stares, shrouded in his coat.
The boys disheveled but him untouched,
a joyless grin on his pale lips,
thin brow dusted with
the sweat of exertion,
the fire in their lungs

lights a spark -

four! the violins pick up again
their strings wailing in excitement
as a hand descends from Heaven
the dancers looking up in awe,
lifting their faces to the single spotlight
illuminating their locked fingers,
rigid backs,
cheek to cheek still

and five, spinning them around
the hand makes all the blood undone
and heals their wounds
as Death lurks in the shadows, ready
to attack once more -


again - six, again - seven,
eight, nine!
their ribs broken and breath quivering,
hands still holding tight,
legs outstretched -

slowly kneeling in an embrace of pain…

pleading mouths -
‘Stay-
stay with me’
‘Please’
‘Tell me,
tell-
t-tell me it’s okay-’

But on ten, enter stage left
one who’s danced with Death half
an eternity-
he latches onto one brother,
forearm against forearm,
leaving him marked -

suddenly a new rivalry-
the dynamic changes swiftly now
and one brother, with his fists raised high,
Death wrapped around his torso,
he is poised to pounce -

ready to ****, now,
any second now,
come to Death, spin him ‘round,
lock eyes with the unthinkable-

eleven. And an arm extends -
in the flash of his own blade
Death falls to his knees,
soulless eyes glazed over, staring still,
the dancers fixed in their sight -

He goes down without applause -
the audience is shocked,
the dancers are shocked,
the violins stopped mid-stroke.

Twelve. A moment of silence for the death of Death.


A beat. And another.
The daring of a pumping heart.
Composure, posture, straightening backs,
hand in rough-skinned hand,
an air of grace and defiance
in their footwork,
set to finish this performance.

At thirteen the violins fall into
the final act -
the dancers spin and smile
painfully wide,
the audience screams and cheers,
wring their hands,
whistle like toreros

rousing Death, forgotten on the parquet,
from his curtain fall,
hands reaching, feeling into the warm
spotlight -
the spectators scream in horror,
the brothers, bowing, turn too late -

prelude -

one -

HOT WIND ON YOUR SKIN BURNS YOUR FACE BURNS YOUR EYES BURNS YOUR HANDS LIKE THE SAND BURNS YOUR FEET BURNS YOUR THIGHS YOUR BRAIN FRIES IN THE HEAT
AND YOU CANNOT STAND IT ANY LONGER PARCHED AND THIRSTY DYING OF THIRST NO WATER ANYWHERE NOT A DROP NOT EVEN TEARS OR SWEAT TO WET YOUR TONGUE NOTHING TO TOUCH YOUR THROAT LIKE THE MEMORIES OF HER OF HIM OF EVERYONE WHO EVER LOVED YOU ALL
THE MEN AND WOMEN YOU LET INTO YOUR BEDROOM ALL THE HANDS THAT TOUCHED YOU AND ALL THE LIPS THAT KISSED AND ALL THE TONGUES THAT LICKED THE SWEAT FROM YOUR SKIN THAT BURNED WITH LUST AND LONGING AND DESIRE UNBOUND AND NOW THE DESERT HOT AND EMPTY NO WATER TO BE FOUND NO TOUCH TO BE FELT NO SOUND TO BE HEARD ONLY SUN SUN SUN AND HEAT HEAT HEAT AND SAND SAND SAND NOTHING BUT THE GREAT BIG SKY SILENT AND BLUE
AND THE HEAPS OF SAND YELLOW BURNING SAND DUNES AND DUNES OF FINE GRAIN
JESUS WENT INTO THE DESERT AND MOSES WENT INTO THE DESERT AND YOU WENT INTO THE DESERT BUT YOU DID NOT FIND GOD HE IS NOT HERE HE IS ELSEWHERE ANYWHERE BUT HERE JESUS AND MOSES LIED THEY NEVER MET HIM THEY CAME HERE TO DIE AND LET THEIR EGOS PERISH AND IN THAT THEY DISCOVERED GOD DISCOVERED THEMSELVES DISCOVERED THEIR SOULS TO KNOW YOURSELF IS TO KNOW GOD MY FRIEND AND THERE IS NO GOD IN THE DESERT UNLESS YOU WANT TO CALL YOURSELF THE GOD OF YOUR OWN LIFE AND THE GOD OF YOUR OWN CREATING THE GOD OF YOUR OWN HEART AND MIND AND SOUL
AND YOU COME BACK CLEANSED THE DESERT NEVER LEAVES YOU YOU COME BACK CLEANSED AND READY AND GOOD AND GOD YOU COME BACK A GOD.

Like ships in the night
we pass - side by side - not breaking our stride,
not looking left, not gazing right,
barely glimpsing each other, like light-
houses, signals blinking brightly.

For the longest time we were alone
still are, no change tonight, we won't;
I've felt your presence long ago,
it was a silent gift.

How did we not recognize each other
after screaming for so many hours?
Listening to your soft cries  (your blue eyes),
Norwegian wood between us guards your lies -
you pretend to be rich and pretty;
I know you're just the janitor of the ferry.
The first mate, the captain, all remotely
far away and you're all that's left -
you are the second best.

Thankfully I'm not picky,
I don't care if you're not pretty,
I only need to see your hands and heart -
the rough patches are a part - of you, of me, of all the world,
and you're so out of reach, of sight,
and I know that it won't feel right; despite that
we shouldn't feel alone tonight.
And you have a wife-

and I know but I don't care.
You won't hesitate to stare,
and I can feel your bitter look upon my back,
the fingers that won't touch my neck
no matter how much I beg and plead for you to take me
and love me, unconditionally,
before I fall into the sea,
the water claiming me fully,
the waves brutally forcing me
under themselves, generously,
drowning in my bed.

a tourist in your own youth-
Was it worth it?
she would be a woman by now
he had the potential to-

lie back and enjoy it
shooting through your veins
no love, no hope, no feelings
there’s nothing left inside you
cold, white as a sheet,
sweating,
cold-
heartless

erratic-
am i acting erratic? Who the **** are you
to tell me i’m erratic?
have you seen yourself?
blown pupils, speed-cracked face,
smiling mouth lined with E
the spots on your forearms tell me you don’t have your act together
but the lines around your eyes dance as if you were happy,
happy to rot away at the bottom of a bottomless pit,
happy to steal and score and steal and score and **** yourself slowly
have you eaten yet? Do you still eat? When’s the last time you slept?

i remember every day as if it were my last,
i remember us in the park, i remember us
in the streets, begging for change,
begging for anything
what did we have back then? Not even each other
first there’s an opportunity, then there is betrayal
who betrayed who first?
does it matter or are you just hurt because you didn’t get your fix out of fit
not soon enough-

am i heartless?
maybe so, but what does that make you?
have you ever cared about anyone but yourself-
have you ever cared about me?
me, me , me, like a film on loop in your head
no drugs can ever quiet it down

a tourist in my own youth, yeah, sure,
but she could have been a woman,
she could have had kids of her own,
she could have -
where were you when i left?
did you sit and cry to yourself because it wasn’t
about your for once? Or was it about you but this time
you didn’t want it?

are you as alone as i am?
I know you are.
the warmth in your veins has long been replaced by-
charlie took care of you

do you want to,
for the sake of old times, like,
do you want to-
let’s revive our hero one more time
let him infuse us with apathy
let him surge through our bodies
let us share-

my blood runs in your veins.

snakes surrounding my trailer
kick down the door
break all windows
knock me to the floor
I know what they're here for

they want me
I know that they want me
they don't even hide it
black eyes, black hair, black stare
he doesn't even hide it

a punch to the guts
a cut on my cheek
kisses me with a fist
my eye as black as his
he knew he wouldn't miss

and they want me
I can feel they want me
he doesn't even hide it

whisper into the night
hissing like vipers
biting like vipers
poisoning my wine
running out my nose
poisoning my mind

they got me
they know that they got me
I don't even hide it
black eye, black hair, blank stare
he takes my hand
and leads me out.

Over the dark-green lake
the big, rippling lake
through silvery weeping willow leaves
She basks
in her own glory, mirrored on the bottle glass
smiling at her watery self
her cold nakedness reflected
in soft motions
psychedelic but clear, a kaleidoscope of moonshine
seductive
I want to drown in it,
I wish I could drown in you, la lune
my love, my life, my night, my-

moon.

The liquid
the suffering
the deep red so deep and red
that only the sea could be more blue
The glass, the green
The intoxicating colors
of a lonely evening
or a dinner date
The stains of anger or
happiness or
fear
Wine, wine
the liquid,
the joy.
The slowed reflexes and
the numbed pain and
the misfiring nerve endings -
the cerebral palsy of alcohol.
The divorced mother of alcohols,
the best friends reuniting,
the new house celebrating,
the variety of steak cutlery,
the funeral of alcohols.
Wine, wine,
the deepest end of a sea
everyone dares to drown in,
and words that can’t be taken back
and deeds that cannot be undone
and promises that are foolishly made,
and birthdays to be celebrated,
and weddings to be held,
and dances to be danced,
all under the soft, dark cloak of
wine, wine.