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

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?

Torrential rain turned the river to rage in July,
the bottom a swirling attack of mud and anger.
The water flooding the valley awoke the men.
To be unwashed no more they watch the water.
Destroy destroy destroy the works of men.
As tides drew back behold! Rise again.
To be inspired, insisting to dream
Return to home, yet past cannot be again,
and thus the men employ the ground up high
delay not here, for waters may again arise.
Inscribe the stone, beginning's need nothing
more than... belonging. Summer ahead now soft.
From immortality two roads spring like sleep
tomorrow is not today, arise fair sun.

My heart has always been skeptical,
and sometimes I think that it's waiting.
waiting to go back to being hollow,
like that old church in Vienna,
after mass on a rainy day in October.

I stood outside in the garden:
extracted my rib,
ground it down on that stone,
shaping it into a knife
so that I could dig a small hole
to bury my treasonous heart.

You emerged into that dark wood,
and we found a path together
through moonlit streets and storms
until we came upon a tavern-
your laughter sloshing like
warm bourbon falling into a glass.

I'd watch you when you lost your self,
and I could see the fire burning in you
warming me, and in those lost moments
I didn't care at all that I might get burnt.

Some women belong to the Spring.
They're meant to bloom,
but they were never yours to keep.

It's haunting to date in Chicago,
where the ghost of us yet lingers.

I dream of a universe where all of
our dates replay endlessly,
and that terrifies me,
but I also find comfort in thinking
that somewhere in the vagueness
of a sunset we wander the river
endlessly in love.

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.

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.

I watch you rise
out of the foggy banks
of Lake Michigan;
I can see the love
running right
out of you.

It's late winter now,
and the sun isn't shining,
but soon...  

You returned the diamonds;
they weren't precious
at all,
just shards of glass,

This is me at 11.
Scared.
Alone.

The ice is breaking.
I caught a fish yesterday...
Well, almost;
she slipped through my hands.

This is me at 34.
I can still see that boy
or...
at least the idea of him
he's hidden in the fog.

And in those northern woods
where winter quietly closed in
and the stars swarmed
I saw her eyes,
and in them maps of the world
in its primal becoming.

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.

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 met her in a cold cemetery
somewhere in the south-side of Chicago;
raindrops foreshadowing snowfall
fell delicately on her tanned face.

Her embrace warmed me throughout the winter,
and her laughter soothed my damaged mind.
I wanted to travel to Paris,
yet she so dearly longed for Indiana's fields.

I decided that I'd like to be a lion,
and she decided that she'd be a lion too.
Nights kept passing quickly, until they slowed.
Suddenly the weather was too cool for lions.

We parted upon the promises of Spring,
both of us agreeing to remain quite close friends.
Off she went to her muddy mid-western fields,
yet here I stayed longing for cold rains.

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.

The heart wanders at night
searching, searching, searching,
for what remains
or for what has been romanticized,
but was never really there to begin with.

Combing through the debris of failure
with such regularity
that it resonates like an owls talons on cement-
- down a dark hallway.

Yet sometimes in the starlight
the heart finds something that makes everything
brand new once more.

I couldn't decide if the light attached to her
or if she swallowed it whole,
or was engulfed by it,
but there it was, in her hair -
diaphanous strands living in the ether
a little closer to the Gods than I was.

She burned extravagantly in those soft hues,
pining for the garish light of day.

The light plays tricks on you sometimes,
and the heart finds its way out of the woods
remembering sailors tales and old
Aristophanes.

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

It was early July when I kissed my father Daedalus goodbye.

She burned so extravagantly under the stars.

I soared through soggy summer air.

All the while the love in her faded.

My fall into autumn was triumphant.

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.

She fell:
into my arms,
like raindrops
at my feet,
but no:
not the tiny type
that proceed the storm,
like the plump generous kind
that fall,
and let you know
that you're in the beginning and the middle of the deluge
half way in, and you can't go no farther -
type of rain.

Lighting up the night sky
of my life
with spiderwebs of purple lightning
she rolled like distant thunder,
while her waves of water
made everything brand new
again.

She tossed the kindling
twigs, dried leaves, and an old piece
of tattered fabric,
at the base of the sturdy bridge.

The wind whipped her white lace dress,
and lightning flashed
as she smiled a secretive grin
before the thunder kicked at the night.

The flames danced with so much grace
under the angry sky,
and she danced with them;
small feral motions and twirls,
as the structure smoked,
and more dancing
always dancing...
until the lovely ruins smoldered
and all that she was left with
was a faded memory
of what the smoke
must have smelled like.

And it was easy to love her then,
in the twilight of her beauty;
the soft grey hours
where we would forever roam
while the specter of her youth
still loomed.

Those late Spring evenings
Were our stage,
And the lonely Chicago streets
Our set,
And I the sun,
Which illuminated her moon.

The green light that was her eyes
Was a beacon
Calling to me
From some insurmountable distance
As autumn slowly closed in

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

He stared at her through campfire;
its flames sounding like a babbling creek,
and through the smoke he knew
that if he had been God, he would have thought
how perfectly he created the world.

She awoke in the clouds
bright, light, and ethereal.
her cheeks the color of...

The April breaking dawn -

No one else was there with us;
so I don't care what any of them think.
They don't know how sweet that wine tasted
on hot summer days up in the cool clouds.

God knows I wish I was better than I am,
good enough to make you stay.
The city lights  burned so extravagantly
I had to know they'd burn out.

The love pulsed out of you that summer,
and I couldn't find the wound
as the life bled out of us
through the fingers of our intertwined hands -
- yet still -
in that moment,
there was a gentleness to you, lady -
- like a deer in mourning fog

I hope that someday
you find an old letter from me,
and that when you brush it off
you miss me

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?

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

The waves tossed about in her soul
while I drifted perilously in the deluge
all the while wondering what monsters swam below.

With thunder in her voice
and lightning in her eyes
I knew that the blood of the gods
still pumped through her veins,
but I was still just a man adrift.

I longed to calm her tempest,
but I wanted it to rage just as bad.
Her lips were salty and solid,
and gave no hint of the hurricane within.

She was a storm destined to be wild.

She had lips
that whispered
the possibility
of forever,
and eyes
that looked
like home.

I sat in the middle of the floor of an empty room,
and I started to unpack all the love;
love that I thought I didn't need anymore,
love that I thought I had lost, and love
that I bought on a whim during a sale.
I stacked it all like books, there on the sunlit floor
next to your grandeur and that sweater that I don't wear.

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.

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.

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

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.

To chase the sun through the desert
one must follow the wild horses,
but the dust gets in your eyes.

It's hard to truly see that land;
the barren plains are the other -
they are not the absence of life.

I thought it easier to find-
her in the city amongst
the soulless testimony there.

One could see her in the darkness,
her love gentle like a lone doe
in the vagueness of the morning.

Her name boomed wise like thunder
reverberating sublimely
all around the rain scent lingered.

Tout semble parfaitement parfait
mais...
a l'interiur, il sent de la pouritture.

Les nuits sont longue,
et...
je aussi longtemps.
Je aimerais revenir
la nuit quand nous
sommes recontres
a nouveau.
J'ai hate de rire.
J'ai aimerais etre alleurs.
quelque part ce n'est pas
cette apartmente
avec ses pelouses
parfaitement entrenues
ou personne ne
connait mon nom.

The sound of loneliness
is the crinkling
of the plastic bag
into which you put your clothes;
you no longer have a drawer in my world.

The look of freedom
is you pulling out of my driveway,
forever.
I long for you to stare back at me
for my eyes are screaming all the things
that I was unable to say to you.

But you gaze straight ahead.
The turnoff for 89 south is nearing,
towards: Boston, Manchester, and Nazareth.

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.

When all around you saw darkness,
you gazed at the stars.

Everyone wants to paint their pain,
but only you, Vincent,
channeled that awful torment
into beauty
immaculate and sublime;
only you, dear Vincent
saw the beauty in the shoes, the bedroom, the weeds, the washers,
only you saw the beauty when it wasn't pretty.

To suffer is human.
but
to find ecstasy in the ordinary
and transform the banal into the magical
is something only you could do,
my dearest Vincent.

Merci;

Jennifer, I vow to be all for you.
I promise to you
that part of me will always stay on the
sidewalk where we met.
I vow to pay you back for bewitching
my serious heart.
I will never not lose myself in your
mysterious eyes.
I vow to be engulfed in love forever -
toi et moi toujours.
I promise to be drawn to you as the
tide yearns for the moon.
I give you all of me until the seas
dry unto desert.

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

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.