I want her to know how I feel.
I want her to know I'm here for her.
I want to take back the night.
I want to make us friends again.
I want to trade this English flower -
- For this Spanish Rose.
I want to.

...bobby stole a car
george jumped
through
the open back window
we tied robbie up
left him on some ones porch
were surprized when
the spainish people carried
him into the house
(so much for robbie)
we egged chamburg's parents
put a box on a porch
with john inside
rang the doorbell and
ran
across the street to hide behind a car
john jumped out
the lady screamed
the husband yelled
john ran
came back the next night
attached a long cord to
the empty box
rang the doorbell....

hang on st. Christopher

the moon
        was never fuller
and we all enjoyed
a little madness for
awhile

i usually, just get tortured,
by thinking about pickled
chiilies;
  oh come on... the crunch?
wouldn't that
   bother you... conjuring
up a kebab... and some
mint sauce, with a variety
of vegetables?
cucumbers, tomatoes, onions,
cabbage... the **** do they
add to the pita enclosure?
****...
          o.k., i get the need
to reiterate they're sweet spainish
onions...
          no peppers...
    red cabbage, not white cabbage...
no raw garlic...
but garlic is the fundamental garnish
however you think about
a turkish kebab...
same category as coriander...
this is becoming silly...
like me in a subway buying
a sandwitch...
the question... what toppings?
ah... ****... can't be bothered to choose...
slap all of them into the bun;
what, even the black olives?!
ah... whatever, yeah.
i still won't be able to conjure up the turks'
combo veg addition to a kebab...
it's the pickled chillies...
       it's torture, not conjuring them up,
sometimes; o.k.,
who the **** sprinkled salt,
            on my tongue?!

Is it the dust ,
or the heat ?
Tequila maybe ,
or the sunrises ,
too many ?

I could listen
to the guitars
all night
while he sings
in Spainish

I'm thinking
I will understand
if I listen
long enough

I understand
the pain
in the fingers
on the strings

The pain
in the voice
The desolation
Abandonment
and the ever
present hope
for a better day

The beat
is like a heart
Constant
reliable
for the moment
anyway

Eventually
all things come
to an end

I stumble home
wishing I
could sing
in Spainish

Buenas noches
Adio digo yo !

I always wanted to go to Paris . . .

. . . listen to Spainish guitars playing love songs in smoky bars . . .

. . . watch young lovers in love and wonder how it felt . . .

. . . dream about how once upon a time a heart could open like a flower in the night . . .

. . . how it felt to have wet lips upon mine , hot breath full of ache and desire on my neck . . .

The wine eases those day's distance in depth that cradle my thoughts

. . . the memories spin to the strings , bleeding away
in the shadows that remain skin deep in sin . . .

I always wanted to go to Paris . . . listen to Spainish guitars playing love songs in smoky bars . . .

Some day I will