fake flowers in an outdoor garden I’ve buried
tracks inside a puma’s paw leading outside the cave
my hands place glass beads beneath your naked feet
crush and drink the blood
tacky paper for trapping wingless appellations
where many thoughts stick then expire
rather like the spider spinning threads too thin for binding
I am here, always in your black places
thinking on a bridge, crossing soil to sand
’tis a fine thing to sleep construct with glass balloons
bursting when I wake
inside my lava chest, a torrent of hot ash
running the length of my breast and tangling my legs
I will return to my chilled sheets at moonrise
rebuild the span of me, you have not yet found
only the tunnel to my nightmares is wide open
I’m worn out this evening
Not sure if it’s the life around me
or in me
It’s exhausting trying to guess all the people someone might be
The person, I can’t become
All this circular mystery
I get dizzy going in circles
Question marks hover around my soul-
fishhooks trying to bait the truth
That I can’t tell you
Not because I’m deceitful
Certainly, because I’m dishonest
Here, a thin sliver of me–
a fish scale on a dead seashell
I can’t stop thinking
This is not a flaw
Not a fact
It just is what it is
My mind wanders
Disconnects from other parts
I go places I shouldn’t
with people I shouldn’t go with
We do things, I’d never do
Except I would
if I were anyone else
back and forth back and forth back and forth
splattering rain, this redundancy of motion
the last hopeful sky un-recalled
this bleak morning, too early for the sun
a thousand immolating balls can’t bring warmth to this day
God is false hope manufactured by bible companies
angels are myths playing dress-up for lingerie chains
a broken deer on the side of the road
wonder if she knew
from the looks of her cracked torso, I doubt it
some car folded her body like a dollar store blanket
the lifeless trees are no better than emaciated throats and fingers
nothing for them to swallow
nothing to grab onto
nothing for me
nothing for us
they will remain naked
I remember you, inside me
moonlight and indigo lovemaking
tick tock tick tock tick tock
another road, same lousy scenery
silver lining lately on a bottle of red and designer label
paying a bit more than usual for spirits, cheer costs
this blueless is overwhelming
the radio melodies on
gently at first
she floats into my interior dystopia
Sarah Vaughan’s nuanced soul
and I know, I will believe in angels again
Shuffling on the dry balls of your padded paws.
Impermanence, your affliction.
Hard exacting breaths from decades of sauntering.
Protesting each movement to fling earth’s weight from your mind.
The weight must land elsewhere.
No more burning up the open plains.
Alive with dullness.
You, a bitter lioness.
Working bones unasked for fractional effort.
Heart wanting recompense from both moon and sun.
Roaring from miles away at injustices served.
Laying waste to shared land.
Sour notes break into others’ dreams.
The bitter lioness will disappear.
Upon the shrinking sands, an old lion slaughters its cubs.
And all other reminders of its imminent death.
what is motherhood if not by your side
watching you my love
what is pure in my life holding by a wisp within your deconstructing body
sweet child how I need to scream inside the ocean
smack the gods
embrace the spirits
where you won’t hear my pain
these arms and legs of mine so powerful
if I could give them and live to hold you still,
carry you as I have done across these years
never with regret
all that I am
wrapped around your life
such beauty in your speaking eyes, your soul-plumped mouth
how you’ve grown these past seasons
metal-bar suns and rubber-tube moons following along your flesh
you and I have traveled so much longer than they believed possible
you grow a bit tired
your little body weary from the outside
fatigue settling some on the inside where my care holds you together
but still fierce in your heart
in your eyes of earth
you are my rock
you are my joy
not in any time
in any space
of any moment
will I ever grow tired
of your heart living inside mine
to my cousin, Marie for her beautiful daughter, Lily xo
Low-rent stage in high-rent district
Dick Blick canvas
Library room with one transom
Mountain top with foot-warmer
Convention hall with stadium seating
Conference hall with folding chairs
Above a deli
Bareback ride across sunset primed sand
Charlie’s Angels’ intercom
Anywhere “O” speaks–
or suits with sneakers gleefully dance
Leaning on Harry’s white Steinway as he plays
I wear dazzling white gown in above image
sometimes gown is gorgeous emerald
on rare occasions–blood crimson
Sydney Opera House
a few of the the many places I pretend my words and art expose themselves
Wrapped in a white T-shirt, placed in a black canvas duffel–
a travel-size Adorini humidor and his hopes.
The flirty Spanish cedar box urges him onward.
Thirteen rolled soldiers guard this carrier’s hard on with dutiful vigilance.
Bulleit Bourbon, the Frontier Whiskey sloshes beneath his crisp North Face.
Before boarding the train east, he shreds the “please” off the bottle with his Kershaw Blur.
No time for “drinking responsibly.”
The 2 am train dumps him without mercy. He lands on the stained cement.
It’s The Wild West where screaming yellow mustangs and sleek horny stallions run free. Almost.
Mile after mile of the concrete mix is near unbearable and longer running than any field he’s ever slept in.
A dusty, ten-gallon hat sits on his brain and a mass of thick dark curls protects his scalp.
While smelling out the October air for her familiar city-built skin, he maneuvers across The Great Divide.
Right now, he’s so far removed from everything he knows. Everything. Except her.
He tugs protectively at his coat making sure the chest-liner is wrapped tight.
She nearly massacred his raw heart once. Damn near killed him.
Now he is The Magnificent Seven minus six–returning for more.
But, the olive branch she extended had roots. He still believes this.
He is willing to buck the bronco one last time. One more try.
Crazy wilding thoughts move his feet too fast. Before he can check the time or look at her Upper West Side address again,
looming across the avenue–her gilded monolith of speckled granite, insurmountable steel and shatter-proof glass.
The pungent city grit reddens his green eyes. With the quick wipe of a sleeve, he makes fast business of these renegade tears.
Almost there, he strolls into a nearby shop and ducks into the restroom–like Superman before the change.
He takes a long secret tug of amber confidence and chases it back with a fistful of mint Altoids.
Returned to Almost, he’s at Her building. He closes his eyes and sucks hard at the floating air. Dreaming. Remembering.
The thought of her wet vermilion lips around a Melanio is almost too much.
But he dares not go in unprotected. Not this time. He gently removes the Adorini from the duffel.
Thirteen pricey cigars gift wrapped in a fine humidor–a peace offering.
A capital start.
She absolutely adores a fine stogie–Gran Reserva Limitada.
This, he knows for certain.
What he does not know–
Is she capable of adoring him as much as her beloved decadent tobacco.