Is your heart still wild;
I wonder,
as fog silently lifts off the Potomac.
I am not sure when
the rains started,
but the noise
falls into the fog.

The district seems sleepy,
and I am tired too.

When is it time?
When did the food lose it's taste?
When did adventure
get replaced by routine?

In the vague tones of morning,
before I find the weight of the day;
I lay.
Lay and watch.
She kneels on a lamb skin,
doing her make up,
in a mirror
perched on the end
of the bed.
I pretend to sleep
so that she doesn't realize
that I am watching her;
she's more beautiful in voyeurism.
In those moments
I am calm and she is beautiful,
The finality of slumber
the pregnancy of morning
the vastness of that mirror
sit together for breakfast
in my small dusty room.

My life started at heart break.
I was in kindergarten
and she was a full foot taller.

I've lived and died countless times
and with each new heart-break
I realize that I'd rather be
broken than over it.
Dieing a little
is worth the price
of loving,
of being loved
of living...

She lived in the twilight
out on the soft grey of dawn
breathing in the vagueness
of the retreating moon.

Even when you held her close
there was a gulf between you:
infinite in it's chasam
only bridged in orgasam.

To worship at her temple
was to be free
and a sacrifice
all at once.

But as she slept,
veiled in darkness
and watched over
by the flickering candle
everything seemed worth it.

Sometimes I imagine myself
strolling through a museum
of my love life.

My soles click on the cold stone
and it reverberates
through the grand halls.

My relationships are there.
Stuffed to mimic real life,
and safely behind glass.

The idea is that I can study them.
Learn from them
in a detached kind of way.

But I never do.
I stroll, and I pause, and I admire,
but I never learn.

We're breaking ground
on a new annex
next month.

Chicago stretched before our eyes
just little lights and tiny cars
drifting through the darkness.

An abandoned swing-set
next to that chocolate factory
somewhere downtown
where my lips met yours
for the very first time.

Lightning broke across the sky
as if God was hastily scrawling an autograph.
While the storm came inexorably forth
there was a fire in your eyes
that no deluge could douse,
and I loved you then
as I always had
ever since YOU
marched inexorably out of that little house
heels, hair, eyelashes, and strength
igniting my heart and stealing my breath.

I've never believed.
I mean truly believed.
Not even
when you and I
sat through Sunday school,
but I'll admit
that there are worse things
then the possibility
of getting to see you again.
I'll see you there
if I get to go

Some things exists on a plain apart.
Words seem clumsy and confounding
in trying to explain these things,
which further frustrates the heart
which understands them
without the need of pretension.
Her beauty was one such thing.

It danced like a flame
on the darkest day of the year
resplendent, triumphant, and yes
unconquered.

To be near her was to to be entranced.
Entranced by such a heat,
that you believed
that even the seasons let her be
as she moved in perpetual summer.

To be around her was to be different:
to be apart
like her beauty,
but to be changed,
yet you allowed it all the same
for the sadness was nothing
when placed side by side with the euphoria.

The sparks spilled from your eyes,
and I dabbed at your cheeks
with a paisley pocket square.

Your voice was so small
that I had to sit so close;
close enough to smell
your Chanel perfume,
hints of darkness
and complicated beauty.

I watched your eyes
so as not to be lost
in your smile.

It was nights like these:
where the summer chill swept off the lake,
and brought me to the low crackling fire
in the stone den,
competing tastes of
pond **** and pink champagne,
when I wondered
if her mind was more beautiful than her body.
When I'd contemplate the fire in her eyes
as they lit up
like an army of lightning bugs
in a desolate field at dusk
as a storm swept in,
I'd wonder at the friction moving her heart.

Lightning pulses in vague moonlight
as night fully settles over the open fields.

Armies of fire flies wage a silent war
popping and shining everywhere.

The scent of rain and dirt permeates all,
as the electric air seems to thicken.

The stars come out early in Indiana,
and it's easy
to not feel so alone.

Summer softly swept in,
and I could feel the sun even in dusk.

I welcomed the coming storm,
and imagined it's cool kiss on my burnt
body,
and I imagined you too;
your tanned skin, and those red red lips,
and in that moment,
with thunder providing a distant waltz
and lightning bugs whirling
I suddenly felt quite solitary.

Tendrils of fire kissed hair
sparked under the dim lights
as the solitary wolf slumbered;
dreaming of bourbon,
ambery oak coating crystal.

Her lips were summer,
her eyes a breeze,
blowing over porcelain skin
long since made fair
under the kiss of stars
and the embrace of moonlight,
where she stood
a little too grand for the night
an ethereal intensity
like some lost Sargent portrait.

Beauty was the only thing simple about her,
for she was quite simply... Beautiful.
Her voice was a 1,000 years of happiness:
her tongue one precise moment of glory.

The sun melted into her skin like frost
on a late spring day,
as she napped like a cat;
feral in her beauty, wild in her heart.

She buried her dreams deep in the moonlight.
No one could steal them there,
but all her friends wondered
why she always lost herself in the stars.

She laughed a laugh
somnolent like honey
sweet like a robin
waiting for spring,
and it resounded
all through the valley
where the clouds
came to rest.

Wind whipped through
the long grass,
roaring like a lion,
rain following
in it's wake.

She reposed there,
under a blanket
of grey skies:
the curves of her
tanned body
ever strong and beautiful
against the windswept green.

I watched her there,
softly sleeping sweetly,
and I breathed her in
slowly savoring the ether.

You saw my slumbering
washed out in the rains
wisps of hope veiled
dreams I couldn't remember

And I saw you too then
alone amongst the wreckage
the embers still smoldering
but with light in your eyes

Give me your hand now
let us turn south from this place
with warmth in your lungs

the thunder storm is breaking
and it doesn't matter anymore
that no one here knows my name

There's opportunity in the ashes.
Tell me; do you see it too?

Lead me away from this place,
and let us speak no more
of this failure
this disgrace.

Teach me how to feel
as I stand here cold -
my shoes soaked,
on a boulevard
where no one knows my name.

Beholding you would make Venus blush in her garden,
madly jealous of the curves of your lips,
and there she would smolder
like some jealous rainbow
unable to be content in her own shimmering
because she still revolved around the sun,
and not the other way.  

I'd wait there -
under the moonlight
- among the fragrant petals
with the gurgling of some small fountain
somewhere off in the distance

I ran away
once I realized
the burden of
you.

I saw you off the bow,
and while I knew
your song was death
I longed to listen.

Your touch was a tentacle
slowly wrapping around me
dragging me into your
abyss
but your smile
your laugh
your kiss
taught me to not mind the dark

Dusk brought in the tides.
Small waves broke upon the shore
in muted hues of blue and grey,
as night began to gather in her eyes.

Yet even in the darkness light remained.
The wine stained her lips a dark crimson,
but when she smiled
everything seemed beautiful.

The air seemed to change with her smile.
Her facade forever locked in sfumato,
ethereal and lovely;
daring me to dream, and oh
what dreams may come,
but why dream
when she had stars in her eyes.

You were a summer snow,
unexpected and electric.
You warmed me
in the depths of winter,
so when you fell
into the ether
no bitterness resounded.

Should you chance
upon these stony shores again
you’d find me on the wuthered
cliffs
where I wait for thee.

The winter wind kissed my cheek
as I walked into the world.
The snow crunched underfoot,
but I paused in the clearing
to see the last full moon of winter
perfect between the trees.
I stood in the soft light
solitary and with love in my eyes
as my breath blocked the view.

In the vagueness of twilight,
your blonde hair sparkling
in the moon and rising sun
all at once;
smiling an exquisite smile
veiled by memory,
tinged by dreams.

By and by as the new dawn
pierced me with greeting
blustery tendrils of frost,
warmth emanated green
from your catlike eyes,
generous and feral
awakening my soul.

I basked in your spirit,
and in the deepness of winter
I suddenly felt alive,
longing to breathe your smile
to taste your fire...

Dark notes of cinnamon,
and smoke
from your lip gloss
radiate off my tongue,
piercing the night.

I close my eyes
inhaling deeply,
to hold the specter of the scent
closer.

I yearn to breathe in your body,
but you had already
slipped through my grasp
fading like fog
softly into the moonlight.

I thought I knew loneliness,
but that morning
when I discovered
that your toothbrush
had disapeered
was truly
the first time that I had met her

I found the devil on the corner of Canal and Chartres.
A gleam in his eye, and smelling of French aftershave.
The echo of my footsteps resounding sharply
off the wet Louisiana cobblestones.
He beckoned me closer
whilst a woman with large feathers on her dress
and a snake draped over her shoulders
came to stand next to him.
She had spice in her soul, and rouge on her lips.
Satan smiled at me then.
There was blood on his lips, and his hair was perfect.

I remember the summer
that my parents crumbled.
The anger
etched upon my fathers brow;
the shame
on the end of my mothers
quick clipped sentences.

It was two years
before the affair came to light,
but the August sun blazed
never the less

I haunted the halls after dark
quietly creeping along the walls
silent specter
adjusting the thermostat
as low as it could go.

I didn’t know what,
yet I knew;
it was all wrong.
Mother knew it too,
and father just waited.
Waited for it to catch up.
Waiting as the tired marsh hare waits,
knowing that the alligator is near,
yet too tired.
Too tired to fight the inexorable.

My family grew cold,
and all the while
the night sweltered
leaving the Spanish tiles sweating
as the faithful air conditioner
chugged on.

There is an old painting in Umbria.
On the bottom,
a skeleton warns
that all men must die.
I
for one
take no umbrage with this,
for after
looking into her eyes
what else remains?

It had been three years then,
but in many ways
it seemed so much longer than that

I could still taste you
when my eyes were closed;
hear your laughter
between the night and darkness.

I can’t remember the exact instant,
but I knew;
I knew that you wouldn’t be back.
It was the same as when I realized
our dear Czar wouldn’t return in the spring.

I stood in the outer darkness:
peering into your inner warmth.

I had always longed for your light,
but the yearning crept to crescendo.

Your skin sang like the song bird,
whom has entered through the open window,
and yet as he finds himself temporarily
warm and dry, still knows that
he will make his exit when he pleases.

Oh, how I wanted your gypsy soul,
and how I needed to taste the sweet treason pouring forth from your lips.

Yet, as the last of the light lingered
I silently stole away
safe in the knowledge of the dark.

Death drifted ever so slowly
through the late August swelter

I watched you return from the lake
the stars silently blazing behind you

The moon was so gentle
like deer in the vagueness of dawn

In my voyeurism I could tell
that the fire was dripping out of you

I thought about Spring in Miami
I remembered when I still loved you.

You looked up and were startled by me
I smiled and you sat and held my hand

There is a space between the vagueness of dawn,
and the horror of the morning sun light
where I imagine that you wait for me.

In the dream you greet me with a smile,
and I pay you back in tears;
for it’s the currency that I owe you.
When your parents came to tell the news
your father wept bitterly in my arms,
yet I held him stoically cold.
My life was organized and compartmentalized.
There was no space for your death.

Life passed me by,
But now that it’s gone
I just can’t look away,
And thus I often look for you.
Dreams don’t know of finality

It was there that we sat as summer simmered;
Autumn, a shadow off in the distance.
I slowly nibbled after a bitter quince,
as she sat in the shade softly,
a wicked grin upon voluptuous lips.

“Can you share it with me?”
What is there to share with anyone?
“The reason for your smile.”
But the smile is already shared.
“I want to know anyway.”
I smile because I hate him.
“You should smile for love.”
They are the same currency really.
“How exactly do you mean?”
The other side of the same coin.

The Brazilian sands became too hot,
and we strayed into the town for dinner.
Bosa-nova narrated our meal,
yet we departed earlier than expected,
our love turned suddenly brutal.

I sat alone in the orchard as fall lurked.
In the vagueness of twilight I saw.
I saw her feral smile while she sambaed.
I remembered her untamed laugh.
I shed a tear for her lost artistry.

She danced along the Chicago Streets,
lovely with fire kissed hair.
Weaving a path towards no-where.
Dreaming of drafts singing sweet scents
of burning leaves in the late autumn air.

By and by the crisp air raked reality,
and she paused
remembering summer rains in her tiny home town

We silently strode
the streets of Babylon;
Revolution in the air,
but my eyes were shut.

It was late autumn then;
the nights turned cold.
It felt like yesterday
had been the equinox.

The walls were crumbling,
but I was unable
to think for the dogs –
forever babbling.


I grasped your hand,
and you squeezed back,
but we already knew
our garden had withered.

Love is tacky.
Love is cheap.
Love is scrolling through an endless amount of ****** online dating profiles
on a Saturday night.
Love is not subtle.
Love is two people bargaining,
lying to each other,
lying to themselves.
Love keeps track of every misstep
so as to hold it against their partner in an ongoing war of attrition
so that they get to pick what to watch on Net-Flix.
Love does not rejoice in itself,
but does so on Facebook,
so that you can rub it in the face of your ex,
and all those friends that just really want to watch you fail.
Love is cheap.
*** with a price tag marked to sell.
Love is dead.

Does the migrating duck truly know
what it is that he wants;
or is he caught up in peer pressure
when he conquers indecision,
and spreads his wings to fly
south?

Is it possible that as he soars,
like Icarus,
that he is accosted by doubt
while the late autumn sun
baptizes him?

And when he finally crashes down,
in some forgotten pond,
warmed by a tropical clime;
that he wonders what might have been,
and is overcome by regret?

I sink into her lips as one sinks
into the soft sands as the tide
recedes gently into the jealous sea.
Locked in an eternal push and pull.
Daring me to swim into her depths.
Exonerating me to plunge down.

And all the while I tread the shores
of Galilee
in the off season,
as the suites come at a better rate.

Hark; the way to the surface is lost
amidst the turbulent crash of
this wine dark sea, which is her soft hair.
Her pale skin is the grainy sand,
And the foam that breaks upon me.
while I long for her wave to crash

I recognize her heart beat, as if
it reverberates deeply within my own,
sounding like a long forgotten love song
that I once knew all the words to

My foot sinks deeply into the snow.
The boots leave giant holes in the land,
while I follow the smaller fox prints.

Stumbling, for I have lost my way.
The sign for Bethlehem snow covered;
perhaps it is somewhere in east Vermont.

The trees are all barren from the cold.
The fox’s glare is often pitiless,
as pitiless as winters frozen touch.

Prophets and apostles migrate south now
along with the fowl of the air and Jews;
to where the signs are not snow covered.

New England longs for the warmth of spring,
but I pine for the deep Florida heat.
I want to watch the heron rise steeply.

I awoke from the dream startled.
The bedroom was oh so very cold,
and I went to cover you in the down,
but suddenly I remembered;
staring at the vacant, ***** sheets.

I held you in my arms
whilst we writhed
caught in the embrace
of love, of love making
the makings of love?

We waited as long as…
We could to leave the house.
Your suitcase pink and heavy.

We stood outside the bus station
silently holding each other
not knowing that we would
never again be in one another’s
arms, embrace, love.
That our time had passed
that WE had died.

I watched your bus drive away
whilst the snows were melting
and I longed to melt too.
To melt into the porous earth.
To melt into you.
A you, that was already gone.
Gone forever.
Yet still I longed

She laughed,
brown hair seeming at once
beautiful.

Que paso?

She turned,
amber flecked eyes
fully feral.

“I knew them once.”

Tu sabia quien?

“Ten thousand sailors
solemnly searching
for the sea.”

yet still
she was beautiful.

I dreamt you last night.
Attending church with my mother.
You were there in the pew,
in the grey dress you wore to your grandparents
that Christmas.
You were beautiful,
but your eyes were not your own

We reposed in the long grass
sweating,
as the scent of gunpowder
lingered in the air.

I rubbed my sore shoulder,
and sipped sweet bourbon
while we wondered after
the ghosts of deer.

Walking back to the road,
there were tourists wanting to
have their picture taken
in front of a sign that reads
"Matanzas Bay Next Exit."

They look happy in their
bright polyester shirts,
and sunglasses

“Do they know that Matanzas means massacre?”
Sheeeeet.  That what that means?

An armadillo lays dead by the truck.

You wanna eat it?
“How long do you think it’s been there?”
Wuddn’t there when we parked.
“Can’t we shoot a live one?”
Shoot the dead one if it makes you happy,
But lets eat him.