My, what a radish rose,
I must say.
I'll trade in Poe for this Zen.
I imagine it's all zithers
And strings.
I'll play you a melody
On my lute,
Most minors and fifths.
I can't explain the number
Or pattern,
Bells or Pennywhistles,
What can I say,
Losing 17 seconds on the reentry. Where the grainy
Black and write
Finally wears you out
While I wait on 65.
What a pleasure
As half the family dies off.
And what, with no kids and all.
And it all goes 180,
Even if you find a woman
To go Karma Sutra,
Its too little too late.
I'll cartoon this ending.
All blue and humming.
And hey, What's a guy
Gotta do to get a drink
Around here anyway?

Never mind the silence,
Bring on The *** Pistols
With they're vitriol
And jugular vein jutting
Out when they sing
Probably spitting on the first row.
The chicks dig when the singer's spit on them.
They get quite emotional with fake anger and wild gyrations.
Captivating they're audience.
But I want to know is
When are you finished,
We got a V.A. function going on tomorrow,
And by God I see one of your band members passed out in the front with the paying customers. And your CD not selling at the door and please clean up the puke when you leave.

Watch the dagger
Coming in your dreams.
You watch it like a swan
Shining silver

It melts into everything.
You become the night.

You reach up,
Swatting it
Like a fly.
Your eyes move rapidly
With the scenary.

The insects rise with the night,
Outside, you walk the dog,

A little poodle
That hates your guts.

It snarls and snaps at you
Every chance it gets,

The little ankle biter.

But that's been your lot in life
In life,

Remembering things
From way back when.

The lesser moments
Come back the most,

It's then I embrace
All the moments.

All the moments
Leading me

To the place outside,

Where the insects
Rise with the night,

As symphonies
Smash through my head,

The oboes and cellos
Rise with the insects.

I switch off the music,
Feel the blind silence,

I strip naked,
Night ticks

In the quiet
Of clocks,

Movements of hands,
I breathe,

The end.

As far as the post conciliatory
Is concerned- It's been delagated to those just pulling out of Suffragette City
For those just entering the foyer, the bulb's been flickering for days. No mention of of attorney fees
At this juncture of the proceedings, Moonlighting
As high tragedy on the
Road to illusion, More a dull
Sideshow of sunny Saturdays
And blue Tuesdays.

And its all waiting just up the road of Monday morning,
While I numerate this dull
Reunion, Watching the ambulance light swirl
In the mix of Sunday night
Turning seedier by the moment. And the police cruiser's slow to respond,
And the parametics leave
Empty handed as another Sunday night comes to a close
And we run the race we know we're losing. And most
Times it's just eternity nipping at our heels.
Guess I've got to check out,
But not tonight. Meanwhile
I have a lamb stew burbling
In the ***. And there's
Wreckage on the highway,
Debris in the field.
And the first siren wails
In a place you do not hear.
And a rustic barn looms
In a dream of dusk,
As bluebird rise with the sun,
And the siren fades
To the distance.

Insolent candy pop skull,
Easy on the eyes
Short on stature,
I get your final comedown.
Here, behind the nape of neck,
Exposed to blue sun-
Pruning the Sycamore for full summer.


It all moves in contemptible silence.
I rigged it from the go.
I see the sun once more
Along Amelia Avenue.
Such is the slant
Drawn up in low light.
Here comes a lover moon
Rising in dusk;
Where every Mother's Son
Hangs a weary star
On its crescent.


Night, with it's visceral lassitude Adding
Insanity to it's notion.
I'll say it's random,
Not much lately,
But enough anyway.
I saw a dream once,
Falling like light in a doorway
A tulip dying in drought.

Its all tickety boo
Mnemosyne,
All the squirrels go swingeling along.
Here, have another.
How did you hear about yourself?
Perhaps from the flatware,
They all had lunch one us.
Voluptuous potato pancakes
In pickling brine.
Who would draw up such schematics?
Prudent farming engineers, that's who.
My lesions are legend,
I know them all by name.
They came up all Humpty Dumpty.
It configured a conflagration,
It was like a coming out party
We took up a collection,
It was a formal gratuity-
Like graduating from Radio school.
Who said "ALL ****"?
Sounds uppity at the cocktail convention,
With the swaggering lounge music.
Its really quite benign,
Like sipping soup through a straw.
Its been factory sealed for your protection.
It's safer than a school of sleepy piranhas.
Have I blown the 9 hour interview?
I wore my best Captain Crunch uniform,
It's standard issue.
I checked the latest at Phlegm Central,
They said I best check my shirt.
Then we had light refreshments.

Later that Century,
I was feeding the current machine.
Greedy Son Of A. B!#ch,
It was such a de-happening.
It became much to empirical.
Like a month of Tuesdays every other weekend,
That's the price to be paid
When you haul it up. Snaggletooth Mountain.
It was bemusing, if not hunderstruck.
We crossed into the International Sinus Zone,
From there it got a bit hazy-
All the trains were late.
It went well with the weather.
Cletus wore his camisole nightie,
While I was in my haberdasher hair shirt.
It effulgent, in mocking undertones.
It's peanut pastime of reinforced paint peels.
How does that make me an irregular object.
Let's all get up and March
To the swinging sounds of Sherezade,
Forgetting your conscience as we sidle along.
Hold up the Opera while I make up the lyrics.
How do you turn this **** thing down?

Shadow, Shadow upon my door,
What wake you bring of Evermore?
Raven,Raven, at my screen,
What tale of blood you bring?
Flesh, Flesh you curse and rhyme,
What dark clock you chime?
A graven image,
I do suspect,
A word of sorrow,
A thought neglect.
You tear and smear and pull asunder,
O what dark garden do you plunder?
You live of ash and beetle root,
And dry blood speckles
Your black suit.
You speak of death and call a ruin,
A harbinger of of malice you bring soon.
Your pale moon, your bloodless friend,
O what dark curse you descend?
You call a fate, a rusted loom,
And weave a madness I must presume.
I call, I lie, I leave a doubt,
What shall I clamor and shout about?
What tale of folly, what madness you bring,
Dead hauntings of silent spring.
In halls, In halls, I do beseech
You mock and scorn and wave and preach,
Of God's loving promise do you breach.
And footfalls, footfalls, a graven ground,
A whispered knock,an awful sound,
A dank body upon a mound,
This mound, this mound
Of mournful dirt,
A red lie, an evil smirk.
You clash and clang,
A mindless cymbal,
And fill darks cups, a ****** thimble,
You prance and wave,
You are so nimble,
You are a bug, an evil symbol,
While your odor lies
A ****** musk,
Is but a folly, a stab, a ******.
You chime the hour,
The Evening Laud,
A death mask, a witch, a fraud.
O shall I haunt and weep amok,
You are a raven, what a horror you cluck.
What stately ruin lies for me
No dark wonder of serendipity.
Shadow Bleeder, killer of dreams,
My throat be closed, a silent scream.
I shall beseech your waking hour,
I see your scrim, your blackened tower.
I see you ply this broken vase
This weeping lie, this false embrace.
How shall I sleep, how shall I tire,
This one last night, this one last hour.

My funeral guide,
Shadow partner,
Silent enchanter,
You take my hand,
Lead me down a moonlit street, I follow, not knowing why. Something clouds your eyes. Dark in ravished moonlight.
I study the lines on my face,
My dark nature,
Darker cohort,
This connection fraying,
This dim receiver,
I ask only for a ladder,
A place closer to the stars.
Dear Shadow Sam,
My Sweet Delia,
Shelter from the storm.
Some slivered dream,
But it gets under your skin,
A red tick burrows deeper.

The moon rose pink and silent, an adornment on the lawn, I bet 9 whorls around
This thumbnail sketch the
Sun rises red near Cairo.
Too bad you lost it on a
Good strech,
An operational hazard,
Some lame 45, long on memory, short on talent.
Bet you cleaned up on the margins, but I bet you can't explain the stain on your shirt.
I think it's a hoot.
All those dark horses,
Come creeping in under the radar on a blue Sunday
With the sparrows lifting
One way then the other,
Silent, back to the wire again,
As cars hiss below the marginal scenery.
It's a dreary 9 to 5,
Nothing shaking on semanics
Catching 500 buses for the coast. Those suckers came and went while we watched
The moon rise over Memphis
But the sink drips and I think
Of olives stuffed with pimento, As a sweet thing
Walks across my window,
All legs and shining in the sun. When you make it free
You only make it worse.
Until then: create mythical
Creatures in the air.
Redo the blue laws every
Seven years. Tip the Triple Crown toward the sun.
Leave your shark tooth smile
At the door.
Its not really misinformation,
Its a hundred dead dreams
Lying on the stoop.
As the fan sails silent overhead. And trains run backward
On the other side of the Earth.

I sit,
      Watch it go up
       In a cigarette haze,
Dreaming of pools
And tan women,
A beer raised
       In the sunset,
Wondering
            How far
              Can it go?
How far
         Have I come?
How far
       Has it gone?
I must be silent,
                     A cat
Licking it's paws,
                   Patient,
Watching from the dimness,
                     Waiting
On the mouse,
             The woman,
                    The word.
A sleek cat
        Sliding across
                    The sun.
The breeze
            And the beer
                The breeze
  Across
        My arms,
            My legs,
               My toes.
The cat returns
            To his quarters
                 Purring,
                  Waiting,
On the mouse,
         The woman,
               The word.

Chill baby, it's the all acoustic set. Going home for the holidays.
A few laughs with Pops,
And never mind the drumsticks, her comes the *******.
Here comes weeping
In a Shiite village,
400 dead in Sadr City,
And pass me the yams.
Did you see that interception?
Here comes the 3rd and long.
         Here the sun falls away
In the twilight of winter.
I dream the Electro Light Fantastic. I'll see ghosts in
The mirror when I'm dreaming. None the wiser,
I saw it in fits and starts.
Better than waking on
New Year's morning in jail with the crazy lady 2 cells over yelling for a cigarette
Every twenty minutes
" Officer, can I have a cigarette?" I want to tell her
To shut up, Instead I ask
Her to get me one too.
And then I knew it's all come round.
Young and Stupid reporting for duty.
Not that it's my rag mag
Sad rag, nothing doing while
I try these new wings on for size. Its just the all acoustic set in a world of static.
Hazy cigarette voices
In trebelo. Though I threw
It out with the cookbook,
I have it all hanging on my sleeve. I thought it was all the rage. Later I found it was
Taxing on my soul.
This all acoustic set, away from the city lights and cyberspace. Left to one's devices, one sinks further into the page. What do you
Expect when candlelight
Falls across the flickering wall?

Two league below, a U Boat
Swims the Atlantic, Lost
In possibilities. Some mind
When I'm tongue tied like a lizard.
Kinda brings up Helsinki,
And she comes in all bells
And whistles. Me, I'm
All acoustic, something like a blank face, Low on cash
And overdrawn on character.
And the sun lights before
Columbus dragging up the rear. Man these ghosts
Linger in the hallway,
But it's better than crashing
The car into the statue
One Thanksgiving Eve.
The all acoustic set says
Death is a bore, Especially
After the ride in From France
I gave up meat some time ago, I gave up on you after
I got to the moon.
Well, it gets me out of the sun awhile. We'll get better when
The world catches up.

Sorry I changed the end around, but I thought it
Was the only out of Knoxville
Never mind The sage gravy,
I've got to tighten the lug nuts. A tither, but nothing on the rent.
And Hitchcock does the math,
While I corkscrew around the truth. While others weep
I dream of women laying in the sun. I guess it's better than ice cream in the rai n.
Who said pumpkin pie?

Leading the page like a drunken sailor, Dreaming
Of blue sea taking it all.
Washing to sea and sky.
Best sit up straight,
Buckle the gallows and eves,
Rushing this long song.
We have a thousand sunlit mornings, until one morning we don't. Our name tied to our toes. When the first blue day goes on with you.
Like a Saturday drunk on the avenue, stumbling through the thickets of his life: Perchance a gamble, A dream
Of Sunday asleep on the couch, while the world hums
All around you.
And it's become your scarlet letter, A threshold of sun and moon. Care for another? I've
Knocked myself silly on this one, What should I call you
When you come knocking?
cont. tommorow-

In a time without clocks,
I dial the sun,
All these sketches drawn
In the dirt.,
My grief is among them,
Drawing dark clouds.
These mechanics of night,
The stars are a whirring,
Relics and rust, sand belts of ruin,
How does one fathom such loss?
This felicity of loss,
Why pander such madness?
At the rim of hour,
The sky holds no grievance,
The orchestra mimics the fifth movement if time.
They wave to the sentries,
The stars have all vanished.
Skylarks and Seraphim
Flit the high wire.
The stone farmhouse,
Still life in winter,
A decanter of dreams,
What were we saying?
Hands move in the motion of dark clocks of ruin,
Picture framed ghosts,
Sure they dark wonder,
Adjoining shadows of dreary
Dark rain.
Cobweb hung night dreams,
Rooms full of clutter never waking the day.
Vespers hung on a string of no stars.
Trembling already, God strips me naked,
Walks with me to a river of stones.
Shadows mingle around us so mottled,
While other shadow gather,
We remember their name.
Never touching the other,
They flee to the darkness.
Unraveling clouds, they witness to others,
In hieroglyphics boxcar of rain.
Wheels turning, the dark engines rumble,
Ghost sparks and whistles,
Through hillbilly towns that have no name.

I arrive at a point
It is elliptical
It is motioning
Many clocks
It is peaceful
And perfectly cold

I am aligned straight as an arrow

It comes like roses full of thunder
It comes like ravens and Van Gogh

It comes
Like
The
Last
Night
Of
The
Earth

I am sending up
My vacant cloud

It stinks
Like a flood
Rushing

Into many birds

I am
Cobra light
And fuming

The yellow leaves
Wink and wave
Their little mouths
Open
To rain
      December 09 2020

Looking through as glass darkly, Silhouettes and shadows gathering in the corner, with old books and half burned candles losing their scent,
And you knew you'd end up here, riding out the off season. Where cars fade
In the window, And
Pilate washes at the sink.
While Grandpa shaves with a straight razor,
Smiling without those Sunday dentures.

C'mon all scruffy behind the ears, Let up partake of evening, with the ghosts of dead Uncles.
As dreams remember what we've forgotten,
As an eyelash falls to the floor.

The Other all acoustic set
Features tambourine and lute, Bright Makimbo dancers, Skyscrapers ready to take on the world,
Strange meandering in this psychedelic pie. The mean child within has since
Given up sharp objects,
Some used with bad flatware,
Well, what can you say,
I guess that's the price for
Doing business on the boulevard. Looking for the
String of pearls in God's eyes.
But you only see them
After they fade to dreams.
A sitar and a scythe,
Cutting the the psychic air
With the fluidity of a mantra
Sung by Holy Angels, pondered by Saints and drunks on the avenue.

The other all acoustic set
Draws poet's dreaming of
Lauds and sonnets and pink and blue evenings, As I draw
Little but the wake of sunset
And somber cello, drawing
Infinite sadness of a world
Turning slowly away from the sun. Yet I walk with the
Wings of Seraphim and choirboys singing the eternal
Songs of Angels passing over
Broken tiles and tilted streets
Under a silent moon lavishly
Grinning at the absurdity of it all.

My, my, sweet sun rain,
It's the Tupelo Line
Past Wilkes-Barre,
All flash and twilight
This side of Pentecost.
And Donald Trump
Has his pulse on the Nation,
And I've got my foot on the gas. Armageddon to the left
Of me, Covid to the right,
As I gaze this sad metropolis.
And I squeeze the turnip dry.
***** the Calabash,
I've got strange maneuvers
Halfway to the sun.
I since lost time to the clouds,
Counting sheep in this psychedelic Insomnia.
And Newton thought The Bible was a code
Written in Men's hearts.
I see God in a solitary bird
Flying a gray sky.

Tracing the hour,
The distance I follow,
Wands and Auroras,
These echoing phrases,
These expiates of shadow.
Angels and Sailors of far of seas,
Ghosts ships of carrion,
This unknowledgeable surrender,
This last ember,
A blazing Supernova.
This rung down the ladder,
Barkok and Liszt,
Stickball in high summer,
Unraveling spector
Of chariots and Pharaohs,
Matresses of mourning,
Days of black shoes,
Pairs that tread the same dirt road.
Venturing clouds,
These invisible evenings,
A burned mound of wheels,
Converging signals
Alinged to one.
Horses braying a symphony of dust.
The end and the beginning Never touching the middle,
Straddling curve space time,
A stratosphere of clouds.
Cobweb hung planets,
Their rings revolving
The shining simmer
In the final arc of sun.
Just outside Nebraska,
Down Highway 1A,
Charles Starkweather Haunts
Gretchen lost ghost.
The dark specter residing
In old Elmer's cornfield,
It moans and shudders
The grave hours passing
Like strands on a string.
Bombardiers blasting
The last metal gun tower,
As Churchill railed the invading Blitzkrieg,
Sending out the Valiant
To apocalypse the hour.
Long rainy seasons,
The trees weeping
The last wilting flower's lonely despair..
The rim of the hour
Dialing shadows dreary filing
Down corridors of clocks,
A Canticle of stars, the dark night revolving,
One billion Angels sing to the light.

I am in the aerials,
Where the birds have their burials,
Down among the rushes,
Where the warm blood pulses,
I haunt along the hallow,
Where the river follows,
Weaving through the branches,
I put the birds in trances,
And live among the brambles,
Where the river rambles,
I am the Olden One,
I am the Second Son,
Spread along the stones,
I sleep among the bones,
Down where the mud seeps,
Down where the earth sleeps,
I am the poison arrow,
And I love you to the marrow.

( three short poems of unease)

    From The Shadows

The ghosts within the room
Stirring to the outside of periphery, Blending
Within the shadow,
Silently they wait.
They await my passing
In forgotten rooms
Silent, but for a passing moon
Over books and broken horses,
          Shadow dust
Ghosts within the wall
Vibrate they're inner mantra
Turning in dreams of dust

               M.O.

Chrysanthemums chatter
To a blind moon lisping
Over a city where
Junkies and lovers
Embrace their torn heartbeats to a night
Devoid of stars.

    Another Town

Jeweled pink pony
Frozen in your scream
Your muted agony forever.
Only to move in circles,
Endless circles
While your painted eye
Stares into the blindness
Of the sun

Watch the wheels and whirs,
Long welts lines like lupus.
My God Man, I'm responsible for this mess.

I thought I'd vacuum to pass the time.
Must not have heard the phone.
My tried and true,
Welcome to the desert.

Lets get started.

The first thing you'll need
Is a well-honed upper body.
Or a shirt.
Do I **** the ending?

The familiar phrase ran up the jaded alley.
Who do you think settled the valley?
The lazy bees outside the window?

The futile logic of the exercise?

Waiting on the circadian rhythm,
Millions of years in the making.
Old Ted Kennedy died this week,
Made me what to play a dirge
To The Three Kings.

I fear the new ones ain't as friendly.
Brandishing sticks instead of branches.
Blessed be the Peacemakers,
They will be called the Children of God.

I got your back, what'd say?
I brought it chapter and verse.
The peace frog forming in
the midst
This strange August.

Switching the jeans for basic black
How urbane the lesson.
I should have turned on Randolph,
Had to wait for Ohio,
Turning on Rush to the buzzed suit
Crossing against traffic.
Two on the way, one on the way back,
Looking for the self-park.

Splendid Desolation,
Daddy done drug up the rear
Its like this from here on out.
Nothing but green along Michigan,
A right on Congress,
Two on the way,
One for the way back.
See the Glory of The Royal Scam.
                    *
         Sep 03 2009
   (For Walter Becker)

(A poem written in real time)

Empty beer cup and a new bottle opener on a blue May
Evening. Cessnas an Cubs
Circle as endless drones
With no map or meaning.
In this settled night, a lone boy bounces a ball off a croquet mallet:
Tocka-Tocka-Tocka, The ball,
The court, the mallet,
Tocka-Tocka-Tocka,
Until he tires of this solitary habit. Him with his mallet,
Me with my pen.
Now and again, he swats it like a baseball,
Across the court and into the fence- Both of us to silence after. Soon I hear:
Tocka-Tocka-Tocka,
As he retrieves his ball from the corner,
Tocka-Tocka-Tocka,
As I strain for words like a sad ape obsessed with a flea:
And finding none.
Soon the solitary boy with the ball leaves the courtyard
To the silence in a isolated
Moment in the American Fabric.
Into this mask of
                Light and darkness,
        Shadow and Imagination
A playwright, looking for a chorus, a melody.
Summer sounds and the race of engines. And the voices
Overtake the silence in the hours of ten 'til one.
And tires and arguing,
And sometimes the cops,
Or an ambulance
With bored fireman
And two paramedics.
And there's a drip in the hallway from the roof.
And I guess its not bewitching, All the noise for a small pocket of silence.
And I play Brahms,
And the police turn down my block, As the moon lurks pale
In the back of my eyes.

Man, you've got to take a step back. I mean you come on a
Little heavy.
I know you've got to write,
But it can be a little intense
And creepy.
I know you'll vdraw me an
Expose on Ecclesiastes,
But I'll show you about baiting hooks in the wind
And learning to let go.
There's something more..
Some larger connection
To the moments we live
For more than ourselves.
The missing part we call
God.
That silent stirring,
A rush of wind, A whisper
At the edge of waking.
A brush, a feather,
Someone calling our name,
But we know not where.
In a moment's clarity,
Seeing ourselves for who
We really are.
A dry time turned oasis.
The healing heart rises
With the Spirit,
Both infused with God
And separate in Father
And Son. Sometimes my
Catholic heart bleeds through my tee shirt.
And I always end up where I
Should be. To the edge of the page and over.

This serpentine shadow.
A ticker-tape wind.
It's a new constellation.
Planets pulse like an idea.
A gathering squall spells out our fortune.
Everything disappears in a wall of gray.
It's not a new form of suicide;
Its as empty as space
And twice as cold
In a dark with no stars.

Under the radar,
Moon list like a pearls,
And I spike the test tube
Down round the circle of the sun,
Under a blue cowl of clouds.
Night lies jagged,
Profane in it's beauty.
And Cicero dreams horses
Falling from a canyon,
And I draw dinosaurs
Leaping over deserts.
As Angels and Sailors
Sing far off sea.
And I lisp on the page
As Jericho crumbles
In the awake of the sun.

I have broken cups to bring to the rummage sale,
They come cheap off the highway.
Their chipped and worn clear through
Like the thin veneer I wear.
But their good for holding it all in.
I've dug holes filled with regret,
Misunderstanding,
All those sorry trips.
Soon it fades like a slippery dream.
Never blinking back the oncoming darkness.
Fathoming this wake
In the last of the flood.

This rich experiment ran out
Of beakers and Bunsen burners. I wore my glasses
And lab coat to little avail.
No blue moon in the cupboard tonight.
So much for the well worn thesis. Here's where it runs out of gas.
Only tinkling flowers
And bare rhapsody, Shivering
Like a ****** in the night.
It's here, and here, and here,
Places I can only show
In the dark.
Things which have no name.
But here, and here,
Feel their shape?
Dim, Oslo in the rain.
And the Nazis occupy
The last of the city.
It's here, and here, and here.
It's nowhere, nothing.
Dry places, bones of dust.
It's here, and here, and here.

Poe took Tylenol,
Hemminway's passed out on the floor,
I'd rather drink blurry-eyed
With Ginsberg,
Beer stained beaches in the afternoon.
Throwing up prose to the dying light.
Cicadas rub the summer wind-
Me, I barely connect the dots,
Writing rubbing in the dirt
For Shelly tanning in the sun.

And it switched my man,
Ain't one found of his bones
Creaking in the closet
                         Upstairs,
With the bare bulbs and spiders crawling the dust
Of the night show
                     *

1965- you're the protagonist with your analyst at 280 an hour,
50 minutes on the shrink watch.
Staring in the oblivion of Tuesday.
                      *
And you remember 1942, and your ****** and your scared,
And you hide in the ***** dens.
You don't smoke it, you just low,
Knowing the hopheads won't hurt you.
And the old man can't find you here.
You wait for him to leave for work.
Because you wanted to **** him.
And you swore he'd answer for those moments.

The insects rise with night,
Outside, you walk the dog,

A little poodle
That hates your guts.

It snarls and snaps at you
Every chance it gets.

The little ankle biter.

But that's been you lot
In life,

Remembering things
From way back when.

The least moments
Come back the most.

It's then I embrace
All the moments,

All of them
Lead me

To a place outside,

Where the insects
Rise with the night,

And symphonies
Smash through my brain.

The oboes and cello
Rise with the insects.

I switch of the music,
Feel the blind silence,

I strip naked,
Night ticks

In the quiet
Of clocks.

Movements of hands,
I breath,

The end.

I woke to hell bleeding
In humid night
So hot, no fan,
No breeze to cool me.
Women complained
The few occasions
I brought them home.
My love suffered-
Except for Judy,
Who came round
At the right times.
I forgot I had no job,
No money.
Judy and I would
Get a bottle,
Pretend its New Year's Eve.
But we'd remember
Its really Tuesday.
Crawling naked, wondering
Could we even go home.

Toward morning I draw the first words
From the place I came yet cannot return
As night crawls back to the hills

Pain is a bright room
Lit in florescent
Here the needle is turning

I wish for the waking of other worlds
The stars are all broken
The ghosts of time pass through me

My eyes are waiting for me in the dusk
I feel my way toward them

I'll find my name written in dust,
There again, I will meet it.

Dear Desire,
          Waiting on the muse,
Even money she shows.
I mean the more I want her,
The less likely she'll come.
She's probably at a gathering.
Perhaps some Uptown artist,
Turning clay into vision
Of a man's soul through his hands, while I wait like
Some **** fool
Who's the last to know.
Well, she phoned from the
Hills- I've got some food chilling,
She should never have promised. I could read it on her voice, saying a bad signal
A tenuous connection at best.
Tonight, soon I say to the empty reciever.
Ah- what are ya gunna do?
Cut off at the knees,
I prepare the meal.
I see black and white fencing
Blurring before the snow
On 45, an hour plus
Off the highway, before
I met the likes of her.
She said maybe,
I even brought chocolate.
I hear the silent hallway,
Listening for light movements, the sound of
Her keys in the door.
I dream she's here,
Stretching her legs as
She kicks off her shoes.
I look for the falling of pages,
Whisper the dreams of children,
Fall back to obscurity.
Another poet waiting for light in the lamp stand,
Shining across the wall
Deep into Sunday,
When its quiets,
In the first cool
At the end of summer.
And I'll keep the light on.
You can let yourself in.
Check the pilot on the stove,
Would you Sweet?
If not, see you Friday.
              Yours Affectionately,
                   Bubbles.