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The Last Moment Untroubled

We were teenagers, wild and open, children of the sun.
We were lying together in a field, tall grass a veil of the
We were teenagers. The love song that was our was playing
on the little radio, the world conspiring to reveal all our
We were teenagers. We kissed and cuddled and laughed.
We pledged our hearts, in innocence and freedom, no fear
at all.
We were teenagers, and knew not, that this was the final
moment of unclouded peace and bliss and wonder for us
in this world.
We were teenagers, and over the sky jet fighters howled
like banshees, cracking open the world and making us cry
out in fear.
We were teenagers, and the evil and brokenness of  men
and of  this world had found us, and this, this holy day
was our last as children.

I Fear I Am Boring You

I see you getting antsy, checking your phone,
growing restless.
I’m sorry. I try to find words to say.
Something interesting to say.
Even a joke, if that’d keep you here.
Don’t go. Please, don’t leave me.
Talk to me. About anything. Literally anything.
Your favorite band is a band I hate, but I want
to hear all about them and their genius from you.
Talk about last semester in nursing school.
Talk about that bitch Skylar and the shit she pulled.
Talk about vacations to places I could never afford to go.
Talk about anything. I will listen. I will care.
Don’t go. Please don’t leave me.
Please, don’t leave me.

Starlings Read The Sky

Eternal Recurrence

Late at night, rainy, the first of June.

A greasy spoon diner, an escape.

Hot coffee, foolishness, waking dream.

I look up, and our eyes meet, she smiles.

I look down, away from her, cheeks flushed.

I look up again, she’s still smiling, then looks away.

Mirror against mirror, the walls made infinite.

I see myself. I see myself. I see myself.

This moment always coming up. I’m always here.

Her Wanted Knight

Kath, with her short, severe and dark hair,

sits on the guardrail above the choppy

Nova Scotian ocean, looking at something unseen.

She is thin, and wiry, with camouflage ball cap

and rain jacket, worn jeans, even more worn boots,

and she is beautiful, but her face could cut your skin.

She has been to war, and can’t escape another one.

I follow her into it, acolyte and hanger on, cannon fodder.

I follow her, and love her, adore her, though I am a fool.

She is hard, though her nature is soft; this the world did.

Once that ocean was blue and bright, now grey and alkaline.

The sky is threatening a storm, and that will soothe these tears.

She turns to me, and I’m not her kind, not her wanted knight,

but she gives me a hug, and we walk up the road, to barren life

and a war we fight though we know our bright moment is lost forever.

I sing that song she loves, about Michael defeating Satan in the

War in Heaven, and it’s gold dust on the deep November snows coming,

I feel close to her in this quiet, but she will always be the moon above

moving my tides and always the face I see when I look to the heavens

and to God, but always a dream, a vision that inspires beauty, wonder,

but never within reach, never any closer that it is on the Summer Solstice.

Later, In our sleeping bags, I stare into the crackling and hideous flames, as the sparksit spits into the air spin and swirl to join the stars already waiting for them in heaven.

She is asleep, and I will be soon, dreaming of us together in heaven, without skin or fear.

The Light of a Secret Sun

No one knows anything,

not even what’s in our own hearts.

Our dreams and destructions watered

and grown by the light of a secret sun.

God doesn’t tell me what he tells you,

but I will follow what I hear in my secret heart,

because I must be true to what I feel imparted,

what comes in the place only He knows.

Out in Kentucky, out in the distant forests,

I leave on my motorbike to ride through the night,

to where I must go, to the struggle I must fight,

and leave you, to what you yourself must do.

The Ivory Tower That Welcomes The Lost

Las Vegas is bright by it is light invisible. There is nothing revealed. There is no warmth.

The songs of my youth, of infatuation and sorrow, call only ghosts whose teeth draw blood.

All night I was awake. All that came were bad memories. Aching for sweet things lost.

Nothing soothes this longing, for what I once held close, and for what’s never been.

The sun is coming up, and to the east, away from the city, it is blinding.

On the edge of the desert, a square of green dead ends into coarse sand.

Stately and new houses already abandoned, and I was late to the party.

Their are only ghosts here, and skittering shadows inside that don’t know my name.

Coffee at a kitchen table in a house that looks cozy, but demons ruin everything for me.

All my treasures and comforts offer nothing, where I have only time, and my buzzing thoughts.

I can remember the girl that bought me the poster for some obscure Russian art film I loved.

But she is gone, and I am here, and I can’t find where my new friends are waiting for me.

Coffee in a travel cup, a thin sweatshirt and sweatpants, and I’m heading to the desert.

There is an angel there, there is a tower of bright light and ivory, where she welcomes the lost.

She will hear the honeyed prayers and grant me rest, show me the way back to a home in this world.

Out in the desert she waits, the sun would not lie to me, would not lead me astray.

But still, there’s a gun in the glove compartment, if I’m let down one more time.

Elfin Cheyenne

The winter sky ragged and silver, like ice unevenly scraped off a windshield on a bitter January morning.

Cheyenne, elfin Cheyenne, thin and proud and bright, a young woman with blood under her fingernails

and the golden hue stolen from the summer harvest in her shock of hair, the brown dirt on the shorn sides.

We smoke cigarettes beneath Father’s bedroom window, conspirators and comrades, all around rogues,

telling crude and cruel jokes, planning our escape to the sunny land of San Diego, made Eden in our minds.

We have a bottle of liquor set aside when we finally make it across the tall and high suicide bridge together.

The hopeful twilight of first cracks in the morning, Venus disinclined to fuck off, and she tells us secrets of

the places the dead know to score peace and magic, and the ground dust of the fairies who once betrayed us.

We will line them up like pixie sticks, the innocent cocaine, and regain what they took while our heads were turned.

And Little Cheyenne, who can not be made redundant due to madness and malcontentedness in extravagant living,

tells me after she gets done bussing the tables at the Paradise Grove Club, off of 75 on the abandoned Kentucky border,

we’ll get this tenuous and sweet reaching for the sun well and truly done, in her beat up CRX we’ll cross the desert that

claimed Mother all those years ago, and we’ll triumph over the boney and icy fingers of angels, delighting in squeezing our hearts.

I hug her tight, thinking this is the perfect moment, knowing it will happen, but it has not yet come.

She Carries The Lamb To Heaven