Butterfly ash,
forgoteen on the petal,
of an orange chirping afternoon,
stain spot,
of coffee,
or lipstick,
trailing too a violin shop,
with tiny finger prints,
left on the shop window,
a moths wisdom,
fluttering by my wool ear,
it listens too unsolved symphonies,
or graveless Mozart,
and leaves at 2 a.m.,
out my window,
and when i wake,
the moth is back,
standing on 6a.m.,
there is nothing to say,
so it stays.

Her wintered sky eyes,
are birds,
a frozen pond,
where fearless children,
challenge the fallen apple,

she is Beethovens forgotten dream,
Beethovens missplaced song,
saties replaced piano key,
Savios hitchiked vision of Toronto,
As she sleeps,
Gymnopedies,
silently creeps from her nostril,
Filling the vents,
with mortals beauty,
and immortalities last breath.

let down your Nevada hair,
you are a haiku,

my dream catcher is in pieces,
on my chest,
like clipped fingernails,
or washed ashore,
sea shells,
like unprepared jazz players,

my radio is crying,
the 30's,
my bed won't budge,
the novels,
like acoustic night women,
bare,
with constellations,
hyrogliphics and cigarette brands,
branded on their backs.

Night,
          is my lover,
                              with long brown hair,
                                              green eyes,
                                         like texas stream,
                                        with tiny crawdads,
                                        living in the mud,
Night,
           a melody,
                            possibly composed,
                                  by Beethoven,
                                      one night,
                                  on purple ***,
                               that sailors drink,
                                  after a storm,
                                   and land,
                                is as unfamiliar,
                                yet is fantasized,
                                  like the ******,
                            dreaming of **** kiss,
Night,
           long road,
                             Dharma bound,
                                                         bare foot,
                                                           ­               hungry.

Money hungry,
the hairy blacked belly,
growls like a street mutt guarding his,
conquered bird,
his belly shines rib bones,
his nose is dry,
too many nights,
prowling potholed downtown slummed streets,
his rib cage glows,
like a diamond,
or a pond late at night,
his paws are sore and bulge like his glorious-mutt-society-tortured eyes,
I offer him my silence,
still,
with my eyes on his,
my body sore with long legs lovers,
and sleepless A.M. Nights,
and we both agree,
to part ways,
and leave him to his bird,
and me to the nights,
and that seemingly endless orange illuminated road,
with my paws in my pockets,
looking for my bird.

girl in purple dress,
you are thin,
skin,
white yet fogging blue,
like the shadow,
of the Moons glow,
on the back porch,
where a spanish uno rosa,
is pink petal-less,
Girl thin moon shine purple dress,
you are the,
winter abandoned rose,
which I still reminisce,
just like side walks,
roads,
and windows,
do,
after it rains.

Buttoning his red jacket,
the lights of his apartment,
all burnt out,
his tiny plastic radio,
statically oozes a sad long performance,
of something incredible,
something that hurts the spine,
and makes him,
sit down on the floor,
His window is dark,
though the sun,
may come up any moment,
passionately exposing it self,
over tall romantic brick downtown city buildings,
made of something too incredible,
to paint,
There is a sound,
there is a love,
there is a death,
there is a dog,
a ***** who never loved,
and her High heeled Stiletto Siren Song Shoes,
are immortal,
close enough to the grave yard,
where her mother was buried 100 times ago,

I pray,
I dip my ******* Vinegar burn,
There are no
Decembers
There is no,
Crimson Highlight of dawn,

His mind is an old Blue car,
stuck in R,
a drunk driver,
Taxi-ing Tourists to hell,
Nevada crumbles like old make up on a woman’s,
tired face,

how long
will a kiss last,
as the sun,
breathes down your neck,
how long,
will beauty last,
standing ****,
in winter,
Barely starving.
I am forged Dream Catcher,
I am prosthetic limb,
holding onto a false Diamond,
Rhyming Georgia's Orange enveloped letter,
never to be returned,
never to be read,
never to be painted Green,
like the personification Mortality
or a strand
of her Night Rose hair,
still in a drawer,
next to a broken lighter.