We walked the length of the tributary in the Simi hills tonight.
timid lulls of filthy water lap against the rims of our shoes
as we trudge under a dilapidating sun that breathes heavy over the
San Fernando Valley.
It is too warm for jackets so we trudge side by side decorated with
summer regalia, the wind is hot for September and I watch as you
soak the sweat from your brow on a green bandanna.
As we approach highway 134 you stop and turn into the setting sun
the blue of your eyes lights up the green rim around an olive pupil
and you smile that deep, voracious grin that throws me into
an almost sleep like daydream.
and in this moment, with the palms swaying in the distance and the cry of the Northern fulmar straying too far from the beach,
I decide I would go anywhere with you
even if the sun never came out to push me to this place.

There have been many nights since
where I lay awake thinking about the most vibrant parts
of you, and this is enough to force my lids
almost to a breaking point.
The way you love me can only be compared to the demise of the sailors
after the albatross; the violent thirst, the melting skin, the delirium
the loss of any hope.
Yet when you touch me I couldn't be farther from the earth
and all its inhabitants.
what we have, you and I, is more vicious than any malcontent
yet it is the only thing that keeps me above water.
and even when we lay intwined in your cheap value store sheets
wrapped together in a violent heap uploading each others
deepest desires, I will ****** my head back with pure vigor
and you will eat up every word I say.
sometimes afterward all I can remember is holding to the edge of a cliff
as the impetuous waves ****** my whole self toward the
impending cliff.
and Somedays I sit and beg to fall right over.

Fresh from the airport taxi we take the tram up to the Sacre Coeur,
For weeks you held a dog-eared photo in your passport folder
of this place.
There were others, with rich history and lines around the avenue
but, as if heaven bound we found ourselves here.
You'd never know we were at the highest point;
because everything feels vertical with you,
like the whole northern hemisphere ignores the sun
and moves with only your gait.
Time seems to slow down,
The warm wind pushes through the cinnamon flecks of your hair
shoving it in a bushel over over your right eye
as you look back at me with a smile so big
its as if the artist had no choice but to
draw outside of the lines.  
You ask,
so I take a polaroid of you
in front of the massive white domicile.
Behind your structured frame
its ancient hairs stand straight up against a pale grey backdrop
like a dim ghost in the presence of strangers,
or a wild animal behind barbed wire
that continues to pace back and forth,
never quite grasping containment.
I pull the film and allow the silver to disperse
but as the halides converge I
see the salaciousness in your eyes
and realize,
I may never be able to differentiate
between the animal and the artifact
and as you move upward toward the large equestrian doors
I understand
this is why I follow.

Hello, four walled cedar room
encased with dirt and idle worms.
A place for quiet;
the last great march to victory.

The tag on your toe will be the  only remaining mark
of true identity, lest someone you once loved
possibly loved you in return
enough  to claim a vacant version
of yourself.
Most will lament to the former you
a select few will only feel ****** and slather pity
if only only for a moment
over spritzer and finger foods.
They can't possibly comprehend that
the exit was brilliant beyond words; that your chalk
outline was significantly different. Than the others.
No one can fathom what you
must have gone through
to get to this point.
The careful consideration that went into
planning such an exit. How to anticipate their
grief, or the planning that goes in to remedy that.
We can only assume the recently dead
revel in the envisage of how strange it is to watch
the artful way
that others fall apart around you.

The summer was full
of wonder.
Many a bottle in we danced on the veranda
and many a drunken shoulder I cradled.
Little did I know, you were six cherry vodkas in
When I called your name.
And As my heavy  body sank to the bottom
I knew I hand sunk my teeth into something
That was already dead.
This is where i hear the sirens
And all I can see is the Picasso outline
Of your torso, flailing about, perhaps a hand
pointed in a gesture, incase they could not
Locate the colorful mess
Below aqua blues and cement white.
I may have been half dead
But as they pulled me out, the bikini strings
yellow and white tied placid
amongst intravenous liquids,
It could have simply been another day
In  summer of  grace.

We meet
in a secret spot below the bridge at Bixby Creek.
The ocean air is stale with salt and sweat. The buckle on
your belt is hot from my flesh pressed
against, and I can feel your heavy breath
on my navel.
Like clockwork your hand is in my hair, we
have been here so many times before,
The dance is old, yet the place is new.
This is not an eighth wonder, but we chose it
as the place to make our penance
to the body of one another.
And when its over we lay side by side
pinky in the fore-finger, like
every other time.
The only sound is the flutter of blood
through vessels
and the torrent of cars along Route 1.
Just a normal night in Big Sur.

We are in Los Feliz tonight.
outside a crowded bar you stop to light a
smoke
and under a canvas awning
I see the neon light up your right eye.
For a moment I thought maybe we were the
only two people on the planet.
As the wind blew in from
the Santa Ana's pushing the smell of
Oleander and faded, smoky pine,
I balk at the commas of your smile
and  marvel at the disingenuous smoke patterns
that make their way from your teeth
only to be carried away with the
heat of the city night.

You sleep and I'll tie the noose.
Among this river of sheets, flesh succeeds the banks.
your flesh, it wraps around me.
Every night I sleep encased in your cells. I
walk motionless around your slumber to burn an ember ed edge
that is already burnt from some nights past, and
I look for clues.
And when I look back at you in that latent slumber,
in a rush of woven terry cloth, with your
eyes fluttering in in some far away place, I think
if Darwin is right, you are the most beautiful fish.

I'm glad it was her not you tonight.
I am sure the speaking of literature and film
would have gone differently if it had been
you in my space.
Looking at my things and analyzing my habits
making assessments of my mannerisms.
If it had been you, I'm sure
I may have done something incautious and perhaps
callous,
the kind of thing you come from dreams saying
perhaps the invitation should
have been lost on
maybes and could have beens.
I suppose it's unkind to think,
If one or the other just did not exist
it would make this plight much different
not better
just different.