I don't stop by
liquor houses anymore
I head straight to the sea

don't be afraid

moon eyed maiden

you're too delicate

for these night shifts you pull off

let's make a

make-believe world

where the beds are all the way up

to the ceiling of stars

just the way you like it



there's no yesterday here

no tomorrow

there's only now

and the tv playing

as you cook

food for the soul



will you remember me then

your friend from another time

like memories of a nice dream

after a song-like sleep



please do

because i love u

and i know u love me

and why do you write?

i'll go first
i sometimes forget my name
it's one of those days
(every other day)

if you tell me I can't make it as a writer
that I must quit "trying"
I'll go into my burrow
and write about it in my little book

i write to live correctly

Always talks you down
no religion in his frown
He's bigger than you or me
loves to see you down on knee
He's backed you into a corner
He's isolated you as a loner
Accuses you of assualt
If you protest he balks
Always your fault he says
Turns your thoughts to maze
I've said too much
Between his thumb's touch
I said too little
Calls all attempts piddle
I thought I heard you laughing
Just him slashing
It must have been a dream
or so it seemed
The beginning was the end
The remains are prayers and amens
Just the distance in your eyes
Just the mask of your disguise
The no answers to all of my whys . . .
Now I've said enough

winter fed us with blood-red berries and ice clouds,
our visible breath soon colder than our lips.
i did not want to see what you had seen,
could not grow out of those sad, sad eyes.
we fell into the calm wave of circumstance
and twilight hurried from us into the dark.
hurried away like the last drop of sunlight
purples the earth, dancing on the edge of the world.
do we wait, stone-heavy, for the last tendrils
of day to melt like ice?
the fearful cold breathes like a fog,
gathers its stars of voice and hill,
gathers memories and distant dreams,
lets us forget.
are you the ghost that lies on the hill
calling to me?
are you that ghost,
whose irons soften like cloud,
whose frozen leaf trembles on the branch
waiting to fall to the whispering land?
your eyes are from the past and yet
they follow like a cold wind blasts.
your eyes, everywhere your sad eyes,
biting like a frost.