All alone
Savio sat
reading christian hymns
speaking at the doorknobless door
tracing the fracture memory
of her legs
her lips and *******
the shoulders
on the fog
that collects on the one window
fog just for him
or maybe she sent the rain
perhaps its her laugh
that drips from the kitchen roof
into a metallic bucket
perhaps thats her smile
in the gutter
perhaps the lake overflowing is her eyes
maybe thats her beauty
blocking the sun
canceling highways
turning New Mexico into Italy
maybe thats her kiss
her lips
that are making his boots wet
his hair and beard damp
all alone
savio sat
with her.

Catherine's Tango
Quiet moonless night lit only by the libido of a white cigarette
Do not
Do not be a poet
propose to a woman
and die with children on your
Denim Soul'd Lap
I am giving up
I am
disfiguring my Rifle
I am
unwashed clothes
tucked into the corner of the bed
where You and She and He and You
sleep
make love
speech
listen to the radio
when it
gives premarital birth
to Jazz C-section
when the radio
sticks its finger down its
electrical throat
attached to the wall
and
Digests Classical Master Pieces of Symphonies

I am 1:42am
an orange pill
2 pennies
3 quarters
a dime
a nickel
molding yogurt
a face sprouting weeds
a body
blooming old age

Tip Toe
unlock my
golden halted door to a chamber of
Lamps that bend and sigh
only to leave you
quite sad
quite misplaced in the sand
asking for water
but all we have
is cold coffee
it has been sitting out for
2 waltz
all of the ceiling's light bulbs
are awake
chattering quietly
like 5am suburbia birds
Pigeons
Crows
The one eyed red robin coasting south for a warm nest
watch out
Lovers are here to stay
they carry
knives and ****** bouquets

With rubble in a desert Town,
Flowers,
Roses and Cacti Grow,
and like mold,
slowly descending onto a painting of a family from the 20's
like a male lover,
descending on another,
kissing his Vice lips.
A.M. Holy
A.M. Cursed
A motel sings mutely on a braille guitar
oh lover
of Cleopatra
birth sister
beauty of mine is obscure and faintly ugly
like a smile
of a killer
or a sky scrapper
who is exhausted
looking over beauty
studying the divine words
of Neruda and his over coat
hiding his pistol of Words
and nymphomaniac disastrous love affairs of the beauty of the human mind
digging
and sweating occasionally dying for the hope
for the hope
for the hope
of something Pure

like the moon
and its Phase
of light,
shining down,
and a man,
too drunk to love.
He descends into a place,
the Rabbit hole of imagination
where everlasting is clear
like a good day in San Antonio.

Like the Stream
where a boy,
found Divinity.

Savio woke to the hot sun opening up to his window,
creeping through the lined cracks of his little wooden shack,
Savio was 23 and had never gone to school,
He read old newspapers that were thrown on the dirt road,
sometimes a day old,
other times a week,
On a good day the sun will be gentle,
and the mud isn't too wanting,
and your boots fit right,
and a Newspaper is from that morning,
On a good day.

Other days,
Savio and twenty other,
picked the Oranges,
placed them into long mesh yarn'd bags and carried them away off to the pick up-trucks.

There was a woman he loved,
She had hands that a Tarantula would fall in love with,
she painted them red,
either to match the color of her lips,
or the fact that she,
was lust,
plucking at gluttony,

She could never pick as many Oranges as Savio could,
So Savio would walk to her and smile at her cheek bones,
and smile at the way her eye lashes curved like the way her lips did,

Her name was Bitellie,
She cooked for Savio,
Bitellie picked up what she could,
from his little wooden cracked shack,

The smell of Oranges still on their hands,
Listening too Mario Bauza,
Listening too Mexico crickets and flickering orange talented lamp posts.

It was a rainy day,
and the mud that surrounded the Orange Trees was thick,
yet thin enough to sink you down to just your knees,

Savio had found no newspaper on the side of the road,
It was usually left by someone wealthy,
with the business section folded on top,
Sometimes he would find half a cigarette,
and he would smoke it,
watching the gray blue smoke, tango with the Oranges.

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.

“i wonder what she looks like naked” he thought
it was 11pm
he had been in the shower for 10 minutes now
letting the water get hot
turning his face and skin red
he had sat down
he stared at the blue rags in the corner of the shower
one was used to wash his back
the other to wipe his *** when he ran out of toilet paper
another to scrub his face
Now they've grown mold
They've almost grown together into one big rag
He stared at the hairs on his legs
He stared at his ***** hairs
he closed his eyes and let the hot water cleanse him
He felt good
Looking through the Showers obscured glass
he was able to see the toilet
it was Blotched
zig zagged
smudged by the glass's perception
He felt good in here
he understood things looking through the showers glass
He understood that things were there
but are in many forms all at once
and that perception
is the most beautiful thing

standing up he grabbed a plastic cheap blue razor
sat back down
avoiding the molded rags
and shaved his face
Chin
Left cheek
Right cheek
Above the lip
Neck

He Felt Clean
He felt like a boy
a newborn baby
Unsure of the things around him
but understanding
the unsure was nothing to be afraid of
nothing to worry over
That the unsure was good
It meant you were still curious
He stood up
turned the water off
stepped out
stared at his naked hairy body in the mirror
looked at his face
it was clean and smooth
The things outside of the shower glass  window were smooth and cleanly perceived
But the understanding
was the same as a man, naked with bright blue eyes
looking through his warped shower glass window
wondering what her ******* and legs look like.

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.

It was a Spanish night,
outside of his tiny cobbed webbed wooden window,
a war announced itself,
a war without Rifles,
Men,
or Tanks and trucks and grenades and black leather boots,
but a war of something
something more deadly,
something terribly cold,cruel,and
beautiful,
in the spanish night,
men loved women,
men loved men,
women loved men,
women loved women,
Lamps exploding with glorious saintly lights,
illuminating the streets like a ball room for the aristocrats,
everything glistened outside,
and he sat beside his old window,
wearing a ***** old white t-shirt,
lighting a cigarette,
he felt as if he was God,
high above,
looking over everyone,
couples holding hands,
girls in sun dresses,
red shoes,
blue shoes,
green shoes,
yellow eyes,
blue eyes,
red fingernails,
purple fingernails,
brown hair,
black hair,
yellow hair,
white teeth,
bright yellow shirts and beautiful brown skin,
the night was good tonight,
his tiny lamp shimmered on his hairy face,
smiling,
his cigarette smiling with him,
He looked over this,
wild landscape of lovers,
music playing,
women laughing,
kissing,
Being God would be terribly cruel,
he would say to himself,
lighting another cigarette,
this is his lover,
his music,
his,
girl in a bright yellow dress,
with her hair down,
and her eyes are large and brown,
her smile the wingspan of a crow,
Looking out over his Heaven
his window,
a tiny spider crawls across the glass,
stopping,
perhaps looking over the dancers,
the lovers,
the kissers,
the youth,
the night people,
He stared at the spider,
“i know that feeling spider”
he said
“looking over all these dresses,and these dancing feet”
he would say
“it's a curse”
“being godn' all”
and the spider would crawl away,
dissappearing into nothing,
maybe underneath the carpet,
where Dogs or mice have chewed tiny holes,
the clock on the dresser hit 1AM,
and the dancers,
the long haired women,
the men,
the dresses and red shoes and lipstick lips and eyes,
were beginning to leave,
Standing up he walks to his closet,
pulling out a jacket,
pulling out a pair of brown pants,
slipping on socks,
then his leather shoes,
his glasses,
walking down the stairs from his apartment,
he had forgotten his cigarettes,
down the hallway of his apartment,
walking back to his room,
a man and women laughed,
her teeth were white,
and she glowed like the flick of a lighter at night,
when the electric bill hasn't been paid,
he unlocks his door,
and grabbing his pack of cigarettes,
by his Heaven window,
he notices the spider on the window,
no body is out side dancing,
and the Street lights,
seem more peaceful,
and welcoming,
And he walks out into the street,
smelling to-do-soon rain,
his footsteps,
loud,
clacking on the pavement,
like a horses hooves,
and he lights a cigarette,
finally alone with the night,
no longer God.

a porcelain grizzly bear is on my desk table
I stole it from a gas station in Oklahoma
driving 100 miles per hour
in the hope for something hopeful
a tiny minuet grasp of freedom of the road
of the cigarette endlessly burning
endlessly producing knowledge
imagination
little scroll stories that flash through the mind like rain drops or
shooting stars at night
or the clock on the microwave turning from 4:00
to 4:01

A subconscious journey
a path
a walkway
a minor walkway into the many hallway'd mind
perhaps there are no doors
no official room or building
simply hallways binding into one another like ******* eye lashes on a woman of 47
and in these hallways there are rats that like to chew on the soles of your high heeled boots
leaving you
bare foot
then the hallway floors turn into your stomach
flabby
filled with chicken skin and peanuts
A subconscious dilemma
dementia
the dogs got loose
I'll trace them by the foot prints left in the desert like snow

“Ah” my money brother told me
a snow storm
I cover my eyes only to see that I am starving from the wind
and food is scarce in my belly
everyone is dying of hunger
but the poet eats on his fingernails and the poems he abortions through the vaginal mind imagination that creates in his skull made up of glue metal objects and pizza boxes left out on side streets for hounds cats and old serial killer'd military men have left the war only to find trash on the side street and windows with yellow lanterns flaming up in the night like a forest fire
or a **** girl of 16 running through the city streets high on methamphetamines
I called the doctor he's drunk on something I made up in my mind
and Beethoven is on the bathroom shooting up ****** which isn't mine
where is the poem heading
only the humming bird and and ant on the wall will because they do not care
I am hiding something beneath the crevasses of my fingernails of 5
of 10
of 20
of 15
“there's nothing to whisper about” I told her sleeping ear in the midst of drunk A.M. night with nothing to do but make love smoke cigarettes and comment on the noises outside city of sirens that do not attract but chase the negros of criminal car thieves and the drug dealers of KCMO

she took off her dress
something glowed in her eyes
on her belly
in her *******
her legs that grew like plants in a swamp
or in a pond where the deer feed and drink
I kissed her lightly
I saw the moon shake in jealousy
so I left the room through the window
I crawled on my highheeled knees onto the roof and sang
I sang
I sang a song that didn't make sense  and I puked up tiny words of
misleading information to the past of my life
van
desert city Michigan land of
rusting
rusted
old broken toyed up frozen over
antiques
the pond is frozen over
winter won't leave me alone
poking at my eyes
the wind plays a sad song
I miss the tree of life
I want to taste the forbidden apple
but I burnt my tongue on a hot iron
or was it boiling whiskey that I drank from the oven

I took a step into a hole
the subconscious mind began the breath like a young man that crashed in a blue volvo in 1963 on a street next to a ***** house and the lights were loud and the women were thin with
thin
thin
thin
thin
and their ******* pointed
and there eyes shifted only to God
only to 1 dollar bills and the 1 whiskey and 1 more pill of the serene night
of that
hope of finding beauty in a high
but the Trees burn
and the soil is over used
bare no child dirt
the children are deaf and blind and cant run up a mountain
reach the stars
reach the ravens
reach for the
violin
that corrodes the mind like lice
like bleach on the bathroom floor
like termites in the basement
chewing on a sound
gnawing on the night's temple
this may be a problem
painting you
I'm out of oils
and the fridge is warm
that is where I keep my pistol
turn the heat on
turn the water off
lets go out dancing
lets make love
lets ****
lets kiss
lets talk about the sky
as we sit
on our bellies
drinking wine
drinking the dogs breath
drinking the hands sweat
drinking the intellectual thoughts of a book
the book is dead
Savio stands with a sword and cuts his own throat
yet nothing pours out
what is next
where does the Van go from here
where is the next highway thought
the next Used Car Dealer Ship
where is aluminium bathroom
the dishwasher with no dishes
the light bulb that dangles like a child's loose tooth in his molding to man mouth

Look over there
child
mother
indian man with no hair
old?
80?
50 probably
look over there God
look over there
look over there
behind those strange purple white blue trees
I think I see myself
standing in water
with toes
with fingers and fish circling my ankles
look over there
a deer spine
a dogs leash
an unwashed sweater that cost 50 dollars

all my pants have holes in them
all the paintings in my house are fake

her bodied was patina'd
by a kiss of lipstick

soothing
the ride back home
a swig of alcohol
as the city night ***** dominated
quietly burns
where is the loud jazz?
bursting like ******* through windows
where is the passion?
where is the drooling for a womans touch?
where is the television with a baseball in it's skull?

where is the wisdom?
I can only hold onto this rope for so long
my hands are soft
and sore
and this hole is deep
this hole smells like New Mexico
this place stinks of dog and a man who cannot wake up from a dream
because the woman he loves
is in an ocean
and he's chasing her
his eyes are strong and wide
his mouth is full of salt water
and as he looks up
there is snow
there is snow and the water freezes over
and his lover is far
she is on the other side of the shore
she is beautiful in the snow
and his eyes grasp onto that beauty
before he is frozen still


a seagull in winter flies with the crows
what a beautiful sight
I once met an ant
on a leaf of a tomato garden
the ant didn't say much
I complemented him on his life span of a day
I asked him if he ever contemplated suicide
but I guess he never got the chance
the garden dies
the tomatoes grew ill colored
and the stems
that were once straight
like young women in sun dresses
now bends
like an old man reaching for his glasses on the pavement in a sand storm of pain
he hollers out in his used up antique washed out voice of time and too many cigarettes too many women's lips and too much coffee at 5 Am
cursing death
to come
cursing god
to reveal himself
like *******
and the Garden begins to decompose
like that of a squirrel in a suburb street
or a mouse in the cats feline belly
the garden descends bent-wardly to death
to the ground
to the origin of life
of  seed.

A journey into a subconscious mind
or maybe the glance through a dying man's eye glasses.

I am Marmeladov
Perched as if I were a Father Clock
A Wasp
A Fly
An ant crawling towards the jar of sugar
Stuck in a tear-drop of Honey
Perched at your window
Dream Catcher from vacation to Mexico
To City Country of bandits
Of hot sun
of desert skin
of guns ****** **** **** *******
Spanish women playing Spanish guitars
only 3 strings
only 5 fingers
only 1 eye
Gazing at Death
Her Depth of field altered by her one orange eye like lit cigarettes in a jail sell after lights out
quiet quartet
spanish folklore
a eulogy written in Violin strings
a graveyard of deceased mad men
we never fond Mozart's body
vanished in the sky like the pupils of a white crow
Anatomy of a violin:
Casted in glass
Molded by the moss stauteing over the side of your house
Alcohol
Sand and mud
Winter and old leather boots worn by a Vagabond searching the trees for proof
Sorrow Sorrow Sorrow
untouched lips of a woman
A.M.
Wet cigarettes and wine and crooked eyes and a starving belly a Thirsty Mind
A lost canine:سلوقی, Saluki, Persian Greyhound, Royal Dog of Egypt
Sitting in a plastic wool cabin
the Mad artist
drinking molding *****
A lost Breed
The Wise
The Proud drunkards writing hysterically on tenement rooftops of NYC
1950
1920
Rimbaud the Tenth of November 1891
The wonderers with peyote with whiskey with 'Kamel Reds' with Hope and Curiosity
Undress your symbolism
Your Strawberry Eyes that Grow on my walls and feet like Callus'
And like the Charcoal sketches performed By Death
We Age
just as the sky does
just as the Tree you climbed as it rained and you swallowed Lightning and Thunder
Yet the sky was dry of no rain
It is a drought
We pluck the roses eye lashes and
Kiss
We climb into Brick studios and watch the Ballet dancer
as she shapes her bones into Sad New Orleans Trees
The door is locked
Not by bolt but
By the uncut fingernails and hair of wild vines
So we crawl through the side shingles
like
San Antonio lizards

Ballet ashes
dancing to the sigh of Beethoven's last sight
before a wisdom of blindness
swept over his brown eyes
She seems to be painted all black
Like the flight of a Crow
Or the color of Plums
I sing with the owls
I lay with the long road of infinity and its sadness
Out of oil
Out of Gasoline
Out of Food
so we lay around
Carving the paint off walls
like Van Gogh

I am hunched over a grave
The pond is frozen over
'Monumento a la Madre'
Vagabond home
The rain casts a shadow
I cannot see past your face

Someone is listening
I seep into the peripheral of night
Write symphonies on stone
Lay with the weeds
digest the light of the moon

And as I follow the Southern Star home
I am
Stopped by
Painted red ***** houses
24/7 Whiskey Churches
So I Lay down the rifle

I thought Van Gogh had it figured out
he fell in love
and cut off his ear
he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound
He painted
He painted the sky
He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields

I thought Basquiat had it figured out
******
NYC
He painted memories in the present
August 12 1988
NYC apartment ****** overdose

I thought Picasso
I thought Warhol
I thought Stalin
******
Buddha
Had it figured out

but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun
and the dog howls
howls for its mother
howls for its brother
howls for its sister

I thought the dog had it figured out
eating insects
smelling my hands
eating the ham on the floor

I thought Hemingway had it figured out
Late at night
reading Old Man and The Sea
Suicide July 2 1961
12-gauge English shotgun

I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out
I thought Ginsberg
I thought Kerouac did too
drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back

I thought Bukowski had it figured out
the cigarettes
the wine
the women
the type writer
the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible

I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out
Beethoven
going Def
Mozart lost in his grave
writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels

I thought
The drunkards were lost
The Junkies were ankle-less
The Mothers were done for
The Fathers had given in
The Young
True
The Elderly
gazing  through the bifocals of heaven and hell
The Prisoners cemented in Time
I thought the Dead
were the ones who published our Dreams

I thought the painter
had it figured out

So I painted

I thought the pianist
had it figured out

So I played the Piano
and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys

I thought the Ballet dancer
had it figured out

So I watched her
I studied the movements
and the bruised toes
looking for a design of an answer

I thought the Poet
had it figured out

So I wrote a poem
and I saw the world.

the dog's bark can't reach thru the rain,
it is night,
youth dwells on sunlight,
health and the illusion of time,
escapes me,
escapes the palmless hands,
that search vigorously,
starvingly,
shamelessly,
into the mud,
for gold,
I cannot see over these,
holocaust trees,
there is music,
playing in the mental hospital,
the insane,
are beautiful,
the insane,
are Buddhas,
Zen conquerors,
Nirvana explorers,
I sit with a metallic stare,
tossing change,
pebbles,
at God's door.

She works at the Flower Shop
selling Roses to the young boys
selling Lilies to widow'd women
selling
white ones
red ones
purple ones
orange ones
She works at the Flower Shop
Clipping the stems of the Lilac
Sweeping the Flower Shops hard wood floor
Insects with wings get inside of the Flower Shop
Insects with wings hide in the openings of the flowers
She listens too the small radio
Attached to the wall
That is painted white
This color
This hue
This brand of Light
Does not compliment her complexion
The Flower Shop's painted white walls are too compliment the complexion of the flowers
Their colors
Their height
Their thickness
Their meaningfulness
The Radio attached to the wall plays Beethoven
The Flower Shop is full of
Insects
Flowers
Beethoven
and White Painted Walls
and a Girl
Who waters the flowers
Who goes outside to smoke her 100's
Who sees the Flowers die
Rust brown and gray
bending towards the ground
The Flower Shop Girl
Shooting up ******
While Laying on the
Flower Shop's hardwood floor
freshly swept
next to the Amaranthine flower
filled with insects

*Beethoven
Sonata No.14
Movement No.3

Bartolomeo
he woke to a howl
he saw that Italy was in Night
So he lit a candle
starred through his window
saw Women in love
Dogs wandering
a man playing a Violin
the color of every woman's hair
as she crossed him

Bartolomeo
stood up from his tiny bed and put on his shoes
opened his wooden door and looked over Venice
the air was thick with sleep
thin with open Eyes

he stepped out into the Night
crossing a river
where a Frog laughed
where a Bird chirped

He was headed to a ball
filled with beautiful women
the richest of wine a man could taste

He crossed the river
passed a few homes:
children sleeping
mothers fathers love making
drunks drinking
birds flying to their nests

Bartolomeo
decided to take a short cut to the Ball
went into the woods
where he got lost

The sun came up
hungry
thirsty and dry to the skin

Night came again

Bartolomeo
kept walking
following the smells and sounds of homes

Then an Angel showed her self to him
The Angel had said she was “Mousai”

Bartolomeo asked The Angel if she was the Angel of Death
She laughed
saying
“Quite the opposite”

and she whispered into both of his ears
fell to his knees
and collapsed onto his belly

When he woke
he was back in his bed

With the Violin player out of his window
and the women in love
the dog wandering
with the Ball still in order

Then he had the strangest urge

he looked into his breast pocket and found a drawing of a strange looking box with legs and strings

it read
'gravicembalo col piano e forte'

So he took it to a Violin maker

Bartolomeo showed him the paper

the Violin maker asked him what it was

and Bartolomeo explained to him that the Angel of Death came to see him in his dreams and left this in his pocket

that the Angel of Death whispered a strange Tune in his ear
which made him fall to his knees and belly

He told the Violin maker that this is the Tune you heard before your Death

The Violin maker
was cautious at first
so Bartolomeo offered him gold to build it
So the violin maker did so

When Bartolomeo's project was finished

He trusted it to be the voice of Death
that any man who heard it
was to die

So he took it out to the middle of the Forest
thick with trees


Pressed a key
the hairs on his neck stood

he waited for her
for Death

She never came

So he pressed another key

a slightly different pitch

Then another
it was thicker
more hollow

and to the far left
was higher
sharper than the others

then Bartolomeo ran his fingers across all of the keys

his eyes closed in fright
in ecstasy

Bartolomeo
left it there
for the night

and went back to his little home
and slept

in his Dream
a Tune played
it played through his bones
his hair
the eye lashes on his skull
the thin layer of skin on his lips
the palms of his hands
Throat
Stomach and Legs

The next day he stayed inside
worried that Death was outside his door

He waited for the moon to be dominate

He entered the woods

To find his musical Death Siren

Still there

And he sat at this Death Siren

Pressed a key
The Night seemed to hover over him
Like the lights of a Play
Like the Rifles of an execution
Like the Lips of a Woman
Like the Eyes of a child

He pressed another

Then he remembered the song in his Dream
and Pressed another key

Closing his eyes
he heard the song behind his eye lids
on the lobes of his ears
the end of his nose
and the tips of his fingers

And he played the Tune
What he thought that Death
had whispered into his ear
and down his spine like dripping wax on a tree stump

The Trees bent closer to hear
The Roses
The Birds
The Snakes
The Rats
The Moon
The Def
The Blind
The Mad
The Moth
The Dog
The Feline

Bent closer into the night
and gazed into the Forest

The Night was filled with his Tune
a mix of sorrow
of lasting hope
of a lover walking into the arms of Eternity's Death Canoe
of Sunrise
of starvation cured by bread and wine and cheese and meat
of *** and lust and love and lips
of death of tears of lonely nights
of war veterans
of sailors of painters of mothers of fathers
a mix of
Death and the smell of coffee
of
A woman and a lake
of
The Fountain of Youth and cigarettes
of
Adam and Eve
of
Insomnia and a runny nose
of
Waking up
and Falling asleep.

It's been awhile
since you've
taken your life
Today I found your
photo
in the trunk of my car
fellow poet
I know it was
peaceful
amongst the
dirt
leaves
the good sun
on your face
with the smell of
pine trees.

We listened to jazz all night,
I had no wine in the tiny fridge,
that was,
supposed to be the kitchen,
we took *****,
I kissed her stomach,
as she lit,
red cigarettes,
with a yellow lighter,
that was thin,
like her neck,
long long long like her,
legs,
we made love with the lights burnt out,
from staying up,
for so many nights,
laying on the hardwood floor,
discovering silver-wear underneath the couch,
and coffee mugs,
to pour our,
Gin into,
that costs 3 dollars,
at the downtown,
liquor store,
we made the city,
smell like cigarettes Gin and ***,
the dogs barked,
2 blocks away,
when she moaned,
and Norwegian birds,
migrated here,
to nest,
to listen to her sing,
when she,
took a bath,
we listened to jazz all night,
on the tiny radio,
that blinked the incorrect time,
and when she left,
I kept the bills paid,
the tiny fridge,
full of wine,
and grew my beard,
when she left,
the jazz at 2 AM,
seemed sadder,
and the piano,
sounded,
more like a her saying goodbye.

i am a worm,
who discovered,
you could be a butterfly.
and that river,
we never,
will remember,
stays in my mind,
and i visit it,
at nights, when Ella Fitzgerald ruthlessly comes on the little plastic radio,
and A.M.
will not leave me alone.

Ocean of sounds,
lights are forever,
Gods,
are forgotten,
while man,
is forever,
like a lost letter,
like an abondoned car,
like a kiss,
like her eyes,
that Sailors and jail keepers,
carve her image,
onto wood,
Ocean of thoughts,
storm of eyes,
palm of hope,
palm of destiny,
as we all,
sigh,
reminiscing.