There they were
Hand in hand
Forever, so it seemed.

Their hair creating halos
Around the heads
Of angels
As they fell.

Moonlight streamed through the trees
Illuminating the wicker basket
Toppled on the ground.

Casting light on the lonely
Checkered blanket
Splayed out beneath the tree.

Hand in hand,
They left this world
Hoping
The next one
Would be better.

Hello dark.

The walls are wet
The cave is hidden
Legs cut through black water

Via rapid movement I reveal a face in the sand, a scar in the algorithm.

A body covers itself in lavender mist

Manly, soft and asleep, his eyes are emeralds buried by the salt of life.

The mans **** transforms into the fountain of lost dreams

Him
    He
       His phone is dead.
        Arms cool colored and heavy

A swimmers body.

The sand reappears around his face. The grains shape into a pair of headphones arched over his skull, like the sweeping architectural feats of those ancient cathedrals.

Lights of subway tunnels devour the faces of strangers  


Wet
   Glittering rock
The Nobel breast stroke
Head above water
   Feet kick past the abyss

Our naked bodies press against one another.  dancing to the glorious choir of nothingness

a ghost of west coast dreams  

He ***** himself to sleep every night
As he waits for future/past lovers
And dreams of ugly angels

Every Angel Second Class jumps into the river of
George Bailey’s despair, and after being rescued
shows everything that never should have existed, everything that was, everything that could be
contained in the Odbody of his inner existence,
the baptism, the worth and joy of all his toil.

No man gets into heaven by slaying demons,
and when Gabriel falls he follows Lucifer’s path,
never knowing that God tempered his Constantine’s
with hell on earth and the fires of suffering
that forge just a half repentant soul.

Angels are born to hover above,
have no weight but eternity,
bound to heaven yet yearning
to feel the delight of a lithe dancer,
see color, eat, drink, feel, suffer
in their own crown of thorns.

When the Angel of Death becomes Joe Black
and falls in love with George Bailey’s daughter,
asks him to be his guide to this wonderful life,
even Death will heed Jesus, make the sacrifice
and not take her to heaven’s embrace,
content forever to watch her
from first step to last.

In between the chords and notes,
spaces and pauses, can I find rest
for my hands long enough to get a dose
of the muse, a cosmic moment to reflect?

And when a chord is sustained
it carries me in anticipation
of what change or pain
will come, and for what duration.  

From measure to measure
I wait upon the muse
for some small treasure
to dwell, disrupt and suffuse,

interrupt the normal routine
and reveal something splendid,
an artistic moment unforeseen
a miraculous onset unintended.

Do the angels and the divine
intervene in a poet’s affairs,
create miracles in the mind
momentarily suspend daily cares?

Or are we listening to the music and muse alone
save the few who gather around
our lines for now til we’re gone
to embrace wholly ground?