My life lies folded between plastic
    sheets. The photos chronicle 71 years.
    The scenes are long forgotten. I'm
    looking at a stranger's comic book.
    He must have been loved by many.
    Laughter surrounds him. He looks
    like a leprechaun stealing hearts.
    I don't like me. I never did. I don't
    know why anyone would. I know I'm
    here but don't know who wanted me.
    I was a mistake that no eraser
    could remove the ******* stain.

I try to contain my mad dog
in some kind of cage but he
refuses to be less than he is
and snarls and tears my world
to shreds while I applaud.

I was in a box the size of memory.
  A field of wildflowers I gathered
  to my heart. They were warm and
  your scent. I wept at your grave.
  We danced. We ******. We laughed.
  We slept in your grave. We died.

I smoked the wine
   I drank the smoke
   I was gone when I
   rang my doorbell.
   I was Tinman with
   no heart you took.
   I'm rust and dust
   just inside Bedlam.

Drunk and trying to write coherent
I'm on a high wire bicycle juggling
as you all stare open mouthed just
waiting for the horrible ending.
I'll still be in our bed tomorrow.
For better or worse we promised.

Where do we go from here?
The beats grabbed Howl and
tore our ordered world to hell.
The Romantics had us *******
in the bushes. Charles Bukowski
had us ******* in the subway.
Where do we go from here?
We've done broke hearts to death.
Who will dare to write of love?
Love men at war return to?

The woman with the crazy hair
and the neon heart in her window
falls gently beneath me and I
never felt love like that again.