The Sea was your favorite place to be- you were sitting with your legs submerged and your blonde hair falling along the curve of your shoulders-
When the waves came rolling in I remember you jumping up and laughing a laugh that would have made the gods envious-
You wore big, black sunglasses and a dark red bathing suit that covered the most sensual parts according to society-

But I loved the curve of your back and the way you shivered when I ran my fingers up towards your spine-
I loved your clavicle and how you smiled when my lips kissed them softly --
I loved your long, smooth legs, and how you wrapped them around my waist-

"What happened to us last summer?" he said to himself when he saw her at the beach with another man.

You are the fire escape on the side of our apartments - climbing up and down, hair blowing in the breeze-
You are the burnt edge of this film I keep staring at hoping to find you in this room instead of this photograph-
Dark alley ways are for the bad girls you told me once-
Dark alley ways are all we have left of that night-

your lips dancing across mine, your hand in my hair, the blurred self portrait we took lying naked in bed-
intertwined, mixing skin with sheets, mixing sweat with saliva ; kiss me like you mean it boy-
Dark and devilish thoughts are what keep girls like me awake at night you told me once-
Dark thoughts are the only sensual thoughts I have left of you-


You are the hurricane that's forming in the gulf; waiting to destroy what's left of the coast-
You are the fire burning the rest of our photos except this one i hold in my hands-
Dark rooms are for the insecure lovers you told me once-
Dark rooms are what I have left of the secrets you left behind-

Black and white film, colored dreams, and memories clashing with reality-
Dark thoughts about dark alleys and dark rooms are what you left me with-

Oh Rick, if only things were so simple. . . .
If only there were Nazis shooting children,
bullies like Major Strasser waiting to take over,
women like Ilsa --
so beautiful and passionate
that just the memory of their love, just the shadow,
is enough.
We would sing the Marseillaise
and in the air itself,
just breathing in that hot, dry air,
would find all the meaning we need.

But we live in an everyday world,
with everyday human beings.
And we must start again each morning,
with scraps of faith and feeling,
to make the world's meaning in the foundry of our heart.

Roll it
Lights out
Whiskey sour
As I relive my incandescent whims
My life condensed to reels and reels
Of illusions
I stare in the darkness at squandered youth
A cinema of one
Coming undone
The glass falls to the floor
Echoes in the night, Ekerö's in the night
Oland also, ancient islands dancing out of sight
Islands kissing, waters whisper rippling
My sadness wrapped around
A prism in time
The director holds me bound
Movies never end
Until the obituary comes a singing
At the door, never to be opened


We used to be four
Ancient voices
Existing no more

Scene:
  
3 A.M.

The Husband and The Wife lie in bed,
asleep.

The punch line:

3:02 A.M.

The Wife, stubbornly inert,
had not yet shut her eyes.

She is practicing the art of stillness
in the midst of a bloodbath

3:05 A.M.

soon to be brought about by her own wretched hands.
Above the sheets, she grips
the mirrored blade she stole from Williams-Sonoma
at 12:12 P.M., yesterday.

The husband breathes,

3:15 A.M.

bathed in sick, sick ignorance, but,
as the wife knows in all 206 of her bones,
not a drop of innocence.

She does not concern herself with the (During: 3: 51 A.M.)
****** itself,
even as her weapon slides cleanly between the goal-posts,
because she is already four steps past this act,

4:15 A.M.

scrubbing herself down with lye
and transferring the stained dish-rags from Wash to Dry.

The Morning After:
doesn’t really matter, it is all a performance
directed by necessity.

The wife stands at her kiln
(what a strange and extravagant wedding gift)

8:00 A.M.

and convinces herself that innocence
is a four-letter word, used exclusively by lying
men like The Husband--
who speak only in threats and backhanded
compliments.

In their fatal blindness, these men lie down in bed--
so very stupidly--
with the targets of their rage, the twisted products
of fear and resentment and bone-cold courage.

And The Husband stands tall with his cruelty--

Even at the moment of death (4:00 A.M.)
Even in the wake of his own burning flesh (8:01 A.M.).