I run my fingers along scars long healed,
feeling the tissue strained to bond,
knowing the sand since fallen.
No blood that falls will **** the pain;
needles and pins in a leather sling
and the claws of the beast remain.

Longing for the one
Who has shortened
Her song
Erasing my name
And filling with another

I knew this would come
Foreseeing the inevitable
But it all happened
So fast...

If A genie
Stumbled upon my desires
Surely it would replace
That dreaded F with L

Then again I could rest
My head next to yours
Because my thoughts are heavy
And your eyes so strong

Your were lovely tonight
Although it kills me to say
We just couldn't make it right
Then I let you walk away

Ambition and lust
Came knocking at my door
I turned them away
With no you, just chore

You were my love song
Every note pumping my heart
Remembering the singing  
In this quite winter

I surveyed from my electric piano
Seated in monotonous comfort
In the skewed seat of a classroom, to the left
In my orb of scrutiny
The light was yellow and thin
Each child seemingly no good
Sewing away at their desks, the days literature
One of them contorted, still feet facing forward
Her petite waist shifted mechanically and geared to a stop in my direction
In native culture, her spirit would be something feline and pleased  
It was in her focused grey stare, fluorescing milky blue
Her iris’s de-crystalized and oscillated in thick Rorschach drops  
As the spell was cast I remained, seated in observation
Wanting to style her maniacal lips
Our thoughts made love in a cloud above this sea of starving fish

in the gray,
milky silence
of the morning…
before we smell the hiss of bacon
before the smog licks
the creamed crimson sky
before we hear the scurrying simian stream
(of which we are a inexorable part)
before the pungent circles
of Michelin and Firestone
have their daily chat
with the asphalt
before we wake to all
this grotesque grandeur
to once again
kneel, supplicant
against the wheel
before we turn the key
to ignite the spark
to fetch the fire within,
we were with Morpheus,
perchance
dreaming of greater gods
of light,
before
the cluttered clatter
of this unholy day