In my youth I strove to
ride all the WorldWinds,
until falling off, no longer
able to remount the beasts.

I miss the lofty views,
but not the extreme
exhausting turbulence.

sometimes
the hangman isn't
hanging
and the night
jumps from the wall
and whispers,
"cut the deck."

"chance," I asked,
"danger and risk?"

"COLD DESIRE..."

she had it tattooed
on her ***

"COLD DESIRE"

we shared a quart of beer.
the dust of time in her greying hair.
she had a wooden leg
and a glass eye
a blue bottomless eye

and she had that, smile
like razor blades and dice
and
sometimes
the hangman
isn't hanging

thundering clouds
and no rain
she looked me in the eye
her good eye
(maybe not
it was a dark tomb
and the night
was blue
or maybe her good eye was blue???)
anyway
she kick me with her wooden leg
I hit her with a right
hand and her
glass eye flew
rolled along
the floor
towards a mouse
hole

a hole in one!

and i
yelled,
ROLL OVER

COLD DESIRE

~
lost library books
and broken lunchbox thermos,
her childhood under a forgotten
leaf on a pond.
she's attracted to the sound
of the breeze through her hair,
inner-city birds recommending
she listen with her head underwater,
to experience it as a fish might.
this is inescapable.

blood roses in the snow,
her unemployed martyred
fingers in the factory.
the manufactured years go by
at a price too great to recover from.
for every flash of beauty,
there is a hint of anger; a dash of violence.
this is inescapable.

her sleep-flower recital
in a dew-swathed spring morning hospital,
some kind of faraway pink funeral for
dead trees and traffic lights.
treasure impaired clouds capture
an isolated moment in time.
perhaps several moments.
perhaps several parts of the same moment.
this is inescapable.
~