what're you doing with those faces
I don't even want to talk about it
our bed fare has gotten exciting
it's interesting they say it takes a village
but Sunday it'll have taken just a year

the landslide is down to its knees
I don't want it to leave I don't write letters anymore
this city is cold now and it's time to go
when will I catch a break or even just a drift
the coastline is calling, the water is coming after me

from your elbows I draw strings to the back of your arms
little spiderwebs and chills to the top of your back
I can climb highways and descend from the stars
but I don't drink deserts and I certainly don't write letters anymore

she's a cocktail of pride, stirring anger and envy into a crowd
avoid her like a power line downed on the ground
dropping off bed linens covered with blood
I know where the going gets going and knowing implodes
inside the brain and sweats off the brow
there are only so many shapes we can try to ignore
can I just show you pictures of when you were happy before

and now the four of us
are like strangers.
with our secrets,we don't let them look past the curtains.
we smile for the pictures and act like we're perfect.

Pictures last for centuries
Some still feel regret
Love, laughter, memories
For the feelings that never left

Tangible emotions
Enfold your heart and soul
Rewind back to the time
When love was warm as coal

Happiness at its pinnacle
All stars became aligned
Empty it was to be cynical
For love, you are sublime

Pictures are a sentiment
Feelings sealed in the heart
Liberated at the excitement
Tracing back from the start

Picture back in time
To a delightful happy me
Her cheek pressed up to mine
We smiled and count to three

It flashed before my eyes
For no love could ever outdo
After three years I realize
That love, I always loved you

Pictures only last for centuries
Take advantage never
Make fulfilling memories
So love can last forever

Poor Viktor Hartmann!
All that remained of his towering soul
were visions pressed on to paper
hanging in a St. Petersburg gallery.

Mussorgsky advanced his lumbering frame
along the gallery halls
searching for his lost friend.

Sonic images formed in the composer’s mind
singing replicas of Hartmann’s icons:

        An old castle,
        Children quarreling,
        An ox resisting the weight of its cart,
        The Great Gate of Kiev.

Mussorgsky’s notes sound and vanish
as ephemeral as life itself -
passing into the ether only to live anew
with each successive performance.

      Viktor lives!

*October, 2006

The clock ticks, we are far away from each other
I watched the trees as the skies went darker
In a few minutes, our eyes will meet
And in that moment my heart will skip a beat

Are you thinking of me now?
I wish I appear in your mind somehow
Because your figure resides inside
It's a part of me that I can never hide

As time goes by, as I travel by train
The thought of you causes me less pain
In just a few minutes we'll meet
In just a few minutes, this is it

I always remember how wide your smile was
How your eyes' brightness never lasts
How your voice gives comfort to my ears
And these little things rid me of my fears

Are you at the train station already?
Are you still waiting for me?
Do not worry, I'll be there soon
It's just a matter of time... until our world blooms

all these broken things surround me
our broken relationship
these ripped papers
the pencils that i snapped in half
that ugly drawing i drew

the pictures on the wall mock me,
your eyes penetrate my soul
they capture a much simpler moment, in a much simpler time of our lives.

There's a huge disconnect when I see your face
that memories have burned themselves
far too much to resemble ashes
and as I try to rearrange the picture
it seems the person I knew
does not exist anymore.
the person I tried so hard to forget
when you were the only one
I wanted to remember
I can't rush back to the start
and not notice how much you've changed.

The way the cigarette smoke seemed to
hesitate in the wind of the half opened car window.
It floated out of your lips in small O's and seemed to linger
on your mouth for a fraction of a second before dissipating into the air.

2.
The glint in your eye as you pushed yourself into me,
my hands wrapped around your tan arms,
pressing white into the hard flesh.
The gasp and the way your hands moved to grip mine,
your lips at my neck,
pulling my hair as it tosses around in your sheets.
The spit, the lack of love, the lack of emotion.
The lust.

3.
The smell of you sauteing onions,
the streetlights buzzing outside your window,
the skulls on the sill illuminated with the glow.
The way the alcohol spills on your hardwood floor
and the way my eyes follow you.
The way my mouth waters for something that can not be fed.