interlude

not once, twice --
two times I found
the answer, buried
in my hair and
brushed perfect like
dominoes falling on
spanish tile or the day
breaking ocean over
tomorrow.

jewelry
two bands and the
sparkle in the sun,
flicking wrists and a
finger stroke and
then the jitters and
the stutters as
inside it grows
a bit.

watching pinero
fisting his life
dreaming, in the midst
of the plunge,
new adidas and
a taste of fame,
a search for bodies
haunts the
haunts
hunt for life.

lust and bacon
chewy overdone experience
yesterday's bones ache
tonight she can't come.
don't interject I
into life,
leave the sight,
rest in it,
be --
strange, remember the
dancing and chopsticks
cutting across the
rocking floor,
stumbling
past.

I Am Eliot

On tomorrow's eve I stand and see:
dead night air and crystal skylines,
waiting for the breakers;
A box of Marlboros
(thank you for 50 years
of good times),
sits empty on the dresser.
Poker chips and faded chairs,
a memory, drifting through,
(the smell of coffee in the winter)
sifts through mottled thoughts
and shuffles in with dust,
the smoke, and the ashes.

Her hiss a whisper past my ears,
that faint calling -- recollect --
Nostalgia and bitter rum,
a cocktail full of voices
littered on the walls,
bleeding tarmac in the evening,
calling vagrants near and far --
The words she says:

"Walk through stale streets sipping
painted wine in search of
slowly burning time,
pavement blurs and smells of tar
and roadkill this evening everywhere,
dripping painted blood,
never burning in vain again."

Innuendo

They meet
(not for the first time, of course)
over cigarettes and a sunrise.
"I'm not in love with her,"
whispers the girl --
they embrace, while
embers like shooting stars
under the veil of dawn
fall to the ground.

In bed
they grope desperately for love
and find instead a unicorn --
lust wafts across damp skin,
the beast raises its head
and in a moments time
they find a thousand reasons
to begin everything again.

She wakens
in pain.

Sorrow
and a life of misery,
shackled housewife and petty thief,
unconscious drifter muttering
in the blue haze that settles
heavily around the room.

We,
the free spirit
of the unbeholden,
who dream in stereo
and rush headlong into lightning,
live merrily in darkness.

At dusk
she weeps.

Sphinx and mother,
zephyr of lies,
creator of life --
do not bleed alone.

Hurricane Bethlehem,
Slouch...
Probate court and we're
tired of the customary,
She swears she's a lesbian.

Alive. Passive.
Palm sweat and she's tearing
at his belt, fire trapped
pants flowing,
the floor catches
socks and her thong;
tomorrow they'll remember
the smell --