He works in a toll booth taking cash
and lifts a gate to let you pass.
God's a librarian lending knowledge.
He's president of an Ivy League college.
He sells pieces of heaven on corners to smoke.
She rents herself out for a rub and a stroke.

The poet's curse. We feel your pain.
We'd rather not but we have no choice.
We need to put it on the page like a
tiny red corpse we never forget. Weep and
pray and deny a god. Death lives inside you.

New York Times said it.
  God is dead. Heavens empty.
  Hell is cold ash.
  The devil's in the details.
  Heaven will be Timeshares.
  Hell will be for Geologists.

One more glass of wine
  Into my time machine
  travel back before you die.
  We'll laugh until we cry!
  remembering, remembering...
  We agree death tops our fears.
  and morning overwhelms.
  I drown again in a sea of tears.

Every night we drink sacred wine
to excess and get angry for no reason.
We're trapped in a play we've written
since we impaled us in ourselves and
perform each night at curtain time
like dancing bears without claws.
I love you. I don't know. Do I?
Throw an ashtray and accuse me.
I'll curse your love and beg for it.
We sleep, perchance to dream.

I tried tears of regret.
I tried flowers and
candy. I was contrite.
I was drunk, jealous,
convinced you had a
lover in the wings
waiting to take you
away from my lost.

Paint me in watercolors.
  Bring me back to life.
  Hues of laughter and desire,
  light inside brilliant light
  husky brawling of youth
  half naked, sweating, proud.