you had the
a u d a c i t y
to walk in with
  green hair
& a grin


        ****, boy
bowl me over
i’m your pin


wash my mop
buy me a whiskey
drunk on the couch
getting             risky


peel off that blazer
  hand on my thigh
bleach blonde
        open wide


but when my
eyes are touched
by morning light
i’m alone
            no nirvana
in sight


i sigh
   & think
fantasies are fun
        juicy like
wet dreams

     w a i t
why is your
b r a c e l e t
on my sink?

Cranberry bedroom
a l l    f o r    y o u

Incense dust
Brushed off the
Small stone
Ring on my
Fat finger

Let it linger

If it was bigger
I’d don it ‘round
My neck &
Sink into the
River

LeBaron maroon
I was (not) meant for you
2,000 free
Minutes from a
Bag phone
I’m a practical
Joke laid bare
By the moon

Wine cooler berry
As wild as the
Unholy cherry from
An herbal cigarette
Held tight by a
Plump Mary

No one sees
Me when I’m
Neck-deep in
Water blue

I rest my head
On *****’s bed
I know she’s dead
But I
Still do

the wind in my hair on the drive to you
replaced by your fingers at night

( d e e p   s i g h   v o o d o o )

summer sunlight caught
in the mesh

i can’t cut the
u  n  c  u  t
silhouette

from my eyes
from my flesh

the same shape
along my arm

sink slowly
my treasure

milk down
the drain
             no harm

Dirt-poor and Balbriggan born
Into the arms of a mother
No longer breathing

Raised by a stone-hearted
Man with a catholic core
Finnian’s soul was gentle
As his ship left the port

He flirted with death
And French boys
Sipping on
Cigarettes and skin
In the alleys of cafés

He found a home
In Marseille

Less of a home, more
A small rented room
With a bed for a
Half dozen men
To break his heart

In a small mirror
By the window
Of his room
He sees the decades
On his face

Time is not
A boon

His glass overflows
With homeland spirit
As he raises it up
To the night sky
With just enough
Air in his lungs for
An Irish goodbye

The ice cube cracked when kissed by a tepid spirit in the glass. A small triumphant sound to mark the first time his tongue tasted scotch and the lips of another man. A clarinet sleeps on the shelf while the crystals continue to melt. Like the bodies on the couch. Two piles of paint swirling into a color he’s never seen. This is a milonga. A gathering of souls. Forever fleeting.