Huff, puff, smooth bravado,
This instrument that I play,
Whisks me away into smokey,
Desolate lounges,
Filled with women in black and red dresses,
Who would otherwise look away,
If not for my silky, suave vibrato.

Ooh, how I can carry a tune,
My fingers dance on the keys,
Like raindrops on a windowsill,
The neon lights at the door,
Buzzing outside in the cold.

The only thing warming up,
This cold little soul,
Is a finger of rye,
Adjacent to the ashtray,
That holds my neglected cigarette.

She watches, She listens,
My face turns purple,
As I pour my heart out on stage,
Out in the open in this vacant place,
With only the few of us around.

Those Bikes
See the goth heavy metal custom motorcycle
Ride past with a long haired rider
Dressed how they should be dressed
Black jeans t shirt denim leather
Low rider chopper as it should be
With twin coffin saddle bags
What a ride to the other side
Give him Devil fingers\M/!
Then there was a classic looking bike
Parked up alone
And I saw two racing bikes
One with a fairing the other naked
Heard his engine as he passed
A man asked me on the bridge
Where am I going?
Planet Mars on a custom bike
With my chick and loud tunes

same old black t shirt,
first day of school ID.

buzzed hair starting to grow in,
glimmering from lamination.

slinking slouching sliding,
stumbling betwixt the desks.

the man, the myth, the legend,
just nobody knows he exists

the heroes of
those action movies
from the 80s and 90s
always looked
so much cooler
with their split lips
and bloodied noses
than i ever could
as they faced off
against the villain
   of the piece
bruised and aching
they would struggle on
regardless of pain
their success set back
but inevitable nonetheless

to be honest
i would love to see
one of those heroes
try to overcome
the villain
   of my peace
i've had plenty
of nose bleeds
through the years
but most of them
self-inflected

her words snap me back to reality,
away from supposition and hypotheticals,
into her arms where I feel safe.

blue eyes that pierce whatever darkness
i thought i had and lied to myself about,
eyes that see me for a who I am and who I want to be.

imagine walking down a darkened path,
content in the streetlights that guided
you home, and spotting something small
and kind. whatever it is you imagine,
it beckons you to hold it and when you do,
you smile, truly and impulsively.

that essence is a woman, and one i admire.
someone beatiful, kind, and funny,
including her incessant snoring on
already sleepless nights because a cat is begging for food but you feeling comfort
in their REM cycle. too little space
to be your own, but enough heart to bridge the gap.

imagine, then, that someone places
your hand on their lap when you drive,
but are equally willing to do the same,
in what feels like an equivalent exchange
of heart and sheer goofiness.

and tell yourself it doesn't feel right
that you were able to find home in them,
effortlessly and happily. you won't
and can't, and neither can i.

words can't express that she has been
friend, confidant, and a visual marvel,
and someone i envision as a pillar
of my bright existence.

imagine reaching deep into yourself,
past any sense of doubt or regret,
and reliving what made you -you-.

saturday mornings when your dad
cut grass and expected help he didn't ask for while bacon and eggs waited
in the kitchen,

or sundays where evening cartoons robbed you, so you wished
for extra sleep before sermons
and trips to CVS.

or holidays alone because jobs
are demanding, and it won't happen
again next year, where stillness forms into repression,
fueled by discomforts, angsts,
sadness.

and it isn't until much later
that the light of your own existence
takes root, petals up toward the sun,
and chooses to flourish.

An occasional gust of wind will lift the translucent white voile curtains and then drop them like a child losing interest. The effect is like flash photography, a burst of sudden sunlight that paints our irises, then quickly fades.

It’s a cool Paris morning. In the low 50s. The windows are open and we forgot to turn on the heat. It’s perfect ‘under the covers’ weather. We’ve succumbed to laziness, refusing to get out of bed. Lazing-in is new enough to us that we’re defining it with a gamut of synonyms.

“Listlessness, torpor,” Peter says, his index finger tracking the slow twirl of the ceiling fan.  
“Stupor, slumberous, supineness, ” I updog.
“Ooh! total submissiveness,” Peter said, drawing the last word out like it’s *****.
“Every man’s dream,” I confirm.
“Inertia,” he says, triumphant in finding an engineering word.
“Good one,” I compliment. “Lifeless, loafing laggard,” I add.

There’s a knock at the door.
We look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught.
“We ordered breakfast last night,” Peter remembers.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “you get it,” I suggested.
“Why me?” he whined.
“Because you can wear less and because what if it’s an ax murderer?”
“These people work for your grandmother, she employs ax murderers?”
“It could be a revolution - this is France - it happens.”

There’s another knock.
“Get it!,” I bleated, like a helpless goat.
“Am I expendable?” he asked, as a man might plead to a lynch mob.
“Women and children first,” I remind him.

There’s a third knock.
“Ok,” he says resignedly, as he rises, draws on shorts and heads for the door.
“You’re my hero,” I assure him, before I pull the sheet up over my head in case it IS an ax murderer.

Listening to the sound of waves
hitting the rocks
And the cool breeze
playing with my hairlocks
I look at the setting sun
As I lean back and smile
For the first time
in a long while
My mind was quiet
my soul was speaking
and my heart got
what it was seeking!

I'm dancing in the (rain) blaze

(Freed from sorrow and pain) Enjoying the fast pace

(Luck fills my heart with laugh) Grinning I burn it all down

(This world I'll always love) I'm ******, so high above the ground
(💞💞💞)😎🤑😎