Tell me I've the music to match a torched soul
Eyes like California mines dripping in gold
I've got that northern soul and those french blues
And you're my new age, wild western muse
Together we're nearing those iconic fires
American paradise, novel sunshine, write me my desires
Neon soaked, West Hollywood Rimbaud
With roadhouse sheetmusic and nowhere to go
The same gilded sun of western dreams
It shines so lone for kinds as us
Wandering eyes hypnotized by that cosmic, copper lust
Revelry scorching night into day
Magnetic soul, queen of the coast, blue highway  
Setting your sleep aside,
Driving with those wild mercurial eyes

Where is my muse
lost in pixies dreaming over Hollywood hills
parties over gleaming cities,
hidden houses,
quiet roofs
Gilded eyes suggesting otherwise
tugging on grey peacoats
fragile Virgo risings
Beings of the sea
of scorpionic lust
drowned in ***** with lemons from the tree.
Beatnik drunk,
Bukowski wannabe
Missing keys
misplaced by a Neptunian tragedy.

The heatwave stretches, stopping only in the silent noons
Rolling blackouts litter the city like swaths of ash
I slip out onto the sidewalk, invisible without the streetlights
Baited and untraceable, I steal figs from the neighbor’s tree

I don’t buy groceries these days
Instead I eat the figs on my way home
not bothering to wash them
We’ll return to the dirt anyway,
We’re no different from the earth, its fruits, and its flowers  

I like to think of them as the forbidden fruit
Condemning me in the lifetime and the next
My kitchen is full,
overflowing with them
More ripening in paper bags by the window

I’ve spent the summer reading
Cannery Row, a Coney Island of the Mind,
I pass the time waiting for my chestnut crown come Autumn
But here in California the leaves never wilt, and the shadows never get taller

The neon sign above my building burns into the scorching night
I clamber upon the fire escape hoping for a breeze to drift down from the rising hills
My placards of paradise fading on the wrought iron
But still I soldier on, guileless against the beating sun

The gypsy hymns and railway trails
which you followed into the valley of your trials
Lady Luck brought you enough street child wisdom and thief given kindness
to turn the tracks around and the train whistle to wake me.
Desert saint of your weathered ways
with your thin wrists and moon gleaming lips
Hope to you was like a blinding sunrise, painful to acknowledge, yet sorely lacking without
Never could be without your Larkspur boquets and marigold wreaths
August heat heavy with the scent of cypress trees
Apollo of the dusty sea, flooded the cliffs with light like withering flames
born from boxcar visions and a desperate hunger for that windblown hallelujah we chased down the starlit trestles like missionaries. Summoned from our streetcar medallions, vagabond nymphs, rumbling through moth-eaten states and barren dusks, lazy moon gazing upon our dolorous times and wild days and all our rough and rowdy ways.
No need to heed the judgements of the stars.
With the arid land so wild and lonesome- we weave our own muse into the railway line- followed back to when you were my home, and the streets were the laurel crown of your vagrant fortune.

Take me to the train station
To the moonlit tracks
With waves upon the rails
And spitfire cracks
Let me rest among the passengers
In their blue, tired seats
Spun by frayed end threads
Wilted in the streets
Take me past foreign, foggy neon signs
To the western, wild call
When the whistle bends into the wind
I’ll know I’ve seen it all

A flurry of setting cracks among the steel
Laying blaze to the ocean’s fate
manifest destiny, the cosmo gold of the west
Where the star is not dying, but setting to bring forth another sun
To whistle on those wild lonesome
Days of rough northern terrain
Where you dug up our souls from the winding river
Whistled sweet into jazz dreams
Faintly singing in mute messages sent down
In the bayou’s mighty hymn  
Cobalt struck by Divine light,
gifted from above
Venus rising from the sea was just spellbound by daydreamers endless sins tormented by minds
Haunted by wills and ego of misleading love torn down from artistic sacrifice,
To heal is to help, through instilling our gift of such cosmic gold, sewn into Apollo’s harp for lost souls to be saved, sung asleep by the triumph of our tribulations

Lovelorn and sore she drifts to shore
Singing hymns from the sirens lure
Crying distant deep in the surf
What was all that sailing for?

Gods of the sea, sleeping serpentine
Neptune rising with his blue fantasy,
Casting hope into sleeping canyon nights
Days spent in pale dawn’s love bright light

The ocean breeze softly sings
Moody eyes safe beneath the sheets
All hungry sailors look to the sea
For a siren to come and sing them to sleep