Poetry
to me
is taking
my pain
and making
it sing.

captive audience listening
to the hornets pouring out of me
i was running fingers
listlessly down your face
and dreaming of acid rain
—a picture in my head
that refused to die

ever mindful
of the bedroom door
hinging on your aches
and unborn eyes
the reanimated heart
chimed
with the twisted shape
of what awaits us all

a rising overture
from behind the veil
warm, wet handed
in a bath of blood

I fathom ghosts in dark bars.
Tortured flickers in old neon,
whose tribulations,
frozen in the heyday,
of their soda pop,
jukebox glory,
are lost,
in the clutter of human extemporanea.

Figurative vestiges,
from an era of nuclear optimism,
that have been reduced,
to dime store novelty.

As cloaked and unrealized,
as the distillation,
of alcoholic dreams,
alchemical vespers,
paying wistful homage.

A tribute,
from inside this rat-**** procession,
of technologically greed,
which has wrought the shelving,
of blue collar heroism,
the extinction of the unsung.

It is in this,
that the neon finds its muse,
and labors on.
And the numbing of aspiration continues,
Prescribed on tap,
for those who seek to thwart,
the stampede of the fittest.

And at that junction,
where they are forced to yield
to imminent refugeeism,
They find one another,
misspoken and assumed,
momentarily relieved to cohabitate,

Where the beer is cold,
and the juke box is still,
A welcomed friend.

And the good times,
just roll,
and roll,
and roll.

From racing dreamscapes,
Swirled with glitz and feathers,
Dizzying patchwork recollections,
Stitched with designer chemicals,
That deepened the hue of our smiles,
Stylishly arranged,
Like so many accents,
Around the wrought-iron geometry,
Of your home,

To perfect cappuccino mornings,
The lazy creeping brightness,
Of the city as it woke,
On a plane where time,
Was still of tangible essence.
From your rooftop we watched,
Eating scones.

There was an easy,
Any-time-of-day-ness,
To the laugh lines in your face.

Blue hair spiked with glitter,
Wiggly wool socks peeking,
From your flannel pj's,
That relic of a leather coat,
As orange-brown-tan,
As my memories of the seventies.
Shades thrown over that peacock grin,
So that your mouth was as cool as I longed to be.

There was July,
That designer suit,
Myself a mess of crushed velvet,
On the couch,
Cutting lines with your passport.
Sniff and a jingling of keys,
Then off with your briefcase,
To litigate the conflicts of industry.

Not without a wry smile,
Shot over your shoulder,
Too boyish to possibly be contrived,
The reflection in your wire-rimmed specs,
A girl,
much like myself,
We're she not so starry-eyed,
And swooning drunk on your vapor.

You were the essential amalgamation,
Of youth and worldliness,
Lacking only romance.
A marvel how passion
Seemed to ebb and break all around,
Yet never touching you,
Or never touching me through you.

Versed in the ways of inurement,
And whimsy,
I have not been blind until now.

This precedent came on wings,
Neon swift but insidious,
Like the venom in your sting,
Which has leaked into the cavities off my brain,
And there like alginate congealed,
Stamping me with your impression.

Thought is now a slide show exhibit,
Of our days and nights,
Each frame individually,
Carbon printed with your seal.

This is a mockery,
Of the years that I've conquered,
Of the woman I've become ,
Still you remain,

A cover boy,
Posing as the marble etched ideal,
For the centerfold of my very soul.