I long for the majestic
sunset of your hair,
windblown, dancing across my cheek…
The burnt orange and lavender…
I want to consume every drop.
I’m thirsty for your
footsteps near my bed, parched with
desire for your presence—your essence.
How long until you wet my
tongue, and quench this fire?
I stalk slumber like a shadow…
my only release from the
hunger and yearning for your
moist lips, like peaches
pressed against mine.

Ten Seconds
You will meet people in
life that like a
fixed game or a
rigged deck.
The dice will feel
heavy, or the
take may be
light.
A jockey might hold
the whip in the
stretch,
or the champ will
go down from
a glancing blow.

Don’t be surprised when

you see it, you’re not
imagining things.
Some people need
it this way,
they’ve been on a loosing
streak for so long, they’ve
even lost
track.

The best you can hope
for is ten seconds
of one day in an entire
lifetime when it’s a level
playing field.
And if you get that
chance,
be ready, it’s
your turn.
Swing for the fence,
win by a nose,
take their *******
head off.

Her lips are like
wet orchids, dressed in
the spring rain,
waiting to be
kissed and
caressed.

It's hard to understand, unless
you've been there.
There is a pull to the streets.
I can't count how many dead
end jobs I've held—how many roach
infested rooms I've
crashed in.
The inevitable day comes when
I tell the boss, "*******, I don't need this ****! "
I walk out into the misty
afternoon—I look left, then right.
I drowned out thoughts of the future with
a cheap pint of *****.

I see one eye George on my travails,
he's half lit—living in the woods.
"Don't let the ******* get you down." He says, as he
stumbles by bent, and taking a standing eight count.
Mickey the ****** stops me a
block from my flop-house.
"Tommy boy, I'm sick…gotta couple of bucks so
an old drunk can get well? "
I slip him a five.
He says with a tear in his eye,
"God bless you Tommy—you know I
had it all, I'm afraid the
streets own me now."
"Keep your chin up" I say as
I plummet down the
street, pretending
tomorrow is a decade away.

I climb the three flights of
stairs to my room,
slip the key in the lock,
turn the ****—it opens.
"I love these little miracles" I say under
my breadth.
My three legged cat Walter saunters up to
me—he's white with marmalade splotches.
He does his best to rub up against
my leg—I pet his matted fur.

I passed out in an alley one
night, and woke up to Walter lying next to me.
I think something crawled into
my ear and made a home,
it's been there ever since.

I crash down on my chair,
and watch Walter scratch at
the door with his one front leg.
He hasn't been neutered—he gets the
pull of the streets.
I let him out and take a long swig of
the *****—the potion does its magic.
Life doesn't look so bad,
there will be other jobs, and I still have
two weeks left in this
dump of a room.
A writer needs four walls—yet there is
always

the pull of the streets.

Let's all go
to Damnation Island.
Let's all go to
the lunatic's ball.
We'll  have
amusements, and
dancing, and the
magic lantern.
The stupefaction
is for us all.

The poor will
be there,
hungry
and tired.
The poor will
be there,
dresses in rags.
We'll all have fun
on  Damnation Island.
The degradation is
for us all.

The criminals
are on
Damnation Island.
They're dancing and
killing at the
lunatic's ball.
The criminals love
Damnation Island.
The mortification is
for us all.

If you go to
Damnation Island,
if you dance at
the lunatics ball,
you might stay on
Damnation Island,
there's a good chance
you'll sell
your soul

perhaps we are really
only jagged landscapes
mired in pain
disclosing our truths
inside the caverns
of written words

How?
How do people do it?
How do people smile, drive cars,
buy loaves of bread,
read the paper, go to school,
go to jobs, go to church,
eat sushi, talk on cell phones,
drink coffee?

How do they ****,
**** and *****?
How do they
get their
shoes shined,
stand in line,
comb their hair,
brush their teeth,
go to the theatre,  
the circus, the carnival?

How do they do
these things and  
so much more when
babies, innocent- beautiful
babies, are born into this
brutal world,
where parents die,
where feral cats carry off
little birds that fall from  
the nest,
where best friends die,
O.D, get hit by cars
drowned or
die from some
strange brain thing.

How do we eat
chocolate, watch football,
and build snowmen?
How do we
visit the zoo,
go to the moon
copulate
*******
******* and
procreate
when hearts still
break,
Sweet Jane dies.
The walk on the
wild side ends,
and the letters we
send get returned?

How do they do it ,
when
dogs get hit by  
cars,
****** roam the bars,
the Dodo’s extinct and
wackos still brutalize
children?
How do people do it?
How do they carry on?