Hair blue as her eyes.
Weight of her.
Soft, fluffy parka.
Vespa ride to the park.
Cold, clear creek.
Roar on the overpass.
We smoke cigarettes.
We drink wine.
She pulls her jacket tight.
Night is falling. Stars come.
Wine is poor man’s infatuation.
Cigarettes are bitter almonds.
We sit in swings.
We talk of paradise.
I miss the weight of her.
I wish we could ride to paradise.
Or a place of dark magic.
I drop her off.
We hug. We shiver. We hope.
November may stay this year.
Hope a pimped out whore.
Hope may beat it all yet.
Rachel, Rachel, I’ve got Ecclesiastes in my satchel, bad shit in my head.
I can’t find peace in this world. I can’t find a quiet place to lay myself down.
I looked to you when I came out of the night, I followed you like the North Star.
I still look to you, but faith is broken, impossible. The church door read “Icabod”.
Crosses don’t cast out the demons, not mine, not the ones pointing guns.
Crosses sharpened, the guns point at us, the fucked up, the not in line.
Rachel, Rachel, Jesus gave you a soft, tender soul, but their’s are sharp.
If love is gone from them, if death comes for us, what did I ever believe in?
Rachel, Rachel, I stand in the middle of Henley St. Bridge, the cold wind calming.
The mermaids here were hunted to extinction. The sweetwater fouled forever.
They just use, they just abuse, they just make excuse for innocence stolen carelessly.
Was their God ever your God, was there even a light from the eye in the cross?
Sink down to the cold sidewalk, back to the edge of the bridge, wind breathing.
Rachel, Rachel, they failed you, and I have failed you, and no one cares at all.
A goddamn smoke might have once calmed me, but not even hymns call angels here.
Rachel, Rachel, I have no hope of light winning, of us laughing in heaven, in the light.
I sit in a swing, watching the house burn, the house where we were children.
Slowly push my self back and forth on tired legs, to dissassociative to care.
I’m watching myself, the orange flames ripping open the night on my face.
I’m a tin dime angel, addled brain almost touching heaven, which the flames reach.
I know you’re up in the sky, the eye in the moon, the listening dish, Sea of Tranquility.
You have that pilots clearance and the love of all that’s holy, good little princess.
I might have gotten something in my mind from kissing your older sister, a tumor.
I’m like neither of you, neither saint or demon, just at a loss for who to breathe in.
The house burns and I don’t care, not even my revenge gives me any feeling here.
I still float, brain damage and alcohol making me float, far away from you, in Tranquility.
The ashes always become embers, and I can never be free, my demons are invincible.
The Raptors are scrambled to take me to hell, still better than being a drone like you.
Still I have the name of love carved in my belly, without your name beside it.
The death angel said hello,
tapping on my car’s window.
She also bummed a smoke,
and of you and me she spoke.
A chain book store, cold night.
She said maybe it was still right
to dream of you, better than
the lingering rage at a Jesus Man.
Thin, gold rim glasses, black hair.
Rebekah you have a halo to despair.
You have a smile I made an a prize.
A dirty needle of greed, no surprise.
The death angel makes a joke rhyme.
Her cold, soft hands inspire my crime.
The night is endless, for you I ache, empty.
Walking on the highway, you just tempt me.
The gunshots stopped hours ago.
The fire alarm is silent now.
The sickly, angry florescent lights
shine on into the dark, cold spring night.
The Death Angel collected her winnings,
the souls to take to Charon and to Hades.
The bodies still, killed and killers,
blood innocent and blood profane
mix in the flat, grey carpets and tiles
and the well kept grass out front.
They all sleep together this night,
in silence and quiet, excruciating peace.
The wind from the high mountains
is silent in it’s passage through the town.
The tall grasses on the edge of suburbs
bow dumbly, like so many prayers of strangers.
Tears are shed, so much loss, so much waste.
The dead sleep, but the living dream.
She sings on my headphones.
An angel singing above the squall.
There is grace in stinging tones.
A time of peace before I again fall.
The city is golden in the valley.
There’s no where like home to be found.
It’s desert and sprawl in Southern Cali.
Her voice is a spell from where the fey abound.
One, two stars wink above the smog, haze.
I can take them down, make diadems for my friends.
In Kansas their were entire galaxies to praise.
Diadems for princes, whom on my hope depends.
She sings, roar of guitar din, hugged by a hurricane.
Hugged close, the storm knows your name, whom you adore.
I forget the joy of a rainy afternoon through a window pane.
I found the angel follows close, even in another lonely war.
Old elementary school playground, after another shitty, bad thought filled night.
No red wine. No French cigarettes. Nothing but the soft whispers of the starlight.
I could touch the sky on these swings as a boy, my feet licked by flames of the sun.
I could find the unicorn in the thick woods beyond the fence, convince everyone.
I listen to the stars whisper now, words beyond our fragile egos and desperation.
They grow impatient, like prophets, watch us burn and fight with exasperation.
A self-styled prophet talked to me today, over Pad Thai and endless glasses of tea.
He found the words for himself, writes them in misted tables, but leave me empty.
A guide to the ocean tells me of my foolishness and desperation and washing tide.
He knows my tricks and games, but has no gauze to staunch bleeding deep inside.
The three saints, their writ and scripture, was left in the receptacle for library sale.
I have to leave for the wilderness where the Satan waits, have to go, cannot fail.
The darkness of night is turning a navy blue, and the sun is coming around again.
In the quiet, in the sobriety of meditation, I cannot almost believe I can still the din.
Bad thoughts come and good thought come, and it all spins the wheel of the moon.
If the dream can bring the end to tears, then there is nothing more to pay the crying loon.
No heaven waits, No God or Father will one day wipe away these tears, but I can touch the air.
I can once again feel the sun licking my feet, and if I can accept the rains, I’ll have so much love to share.
Joan, Rachel, and Anastasia; books of my three saints
kept in my worn, brown leather knapsack, all these years.
Veneration of my saints, and my hope for my own soul,
the light I tried to sail to, across the Venusberg sea.
It’s raining tonight, and my stiff leather jacket, and scratched helmet,
and the knowledge that I can’t stay in my ten cent paradise pushes me on.
Saintly love is just another childish infatuation, my three graces at my sinner’s table,
trying to make desire a dream of paradise and heaven and holiness.
If there isn’t courtly love or engrossment in beauty and flesh, for an angel to wipe away tears,
what is there for me in this world? I have to go to find out. I have to go.
Old, battered and blue Yamaha motorbike, Carter Administration vintage, will carry me,
either in flesh or spirit, through Lincoln Tunnel, to what lies beyond childish infatuation.
If I dare to go tonight…….