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UFO Radio

Maybe we could just be companions, like on the Dr Who reruns we loved when we were in elementary school.

Just friends, soul mates of more true and intimate kind, connected by clear thoughts and unbroken hearts.

On our grand adventure north, across the Canadian plains and to the deep forests, we can still be innocent.

Just us, true as we ever were, with audio dramas and UFO radio late at night as we drive in the empty nowhere.

Sex corrupts hearts and has ruined every good thing I’ve ever had; don’t let it ruin us too or our great escape.

The money saved, car ready, all settled. Let us be angels out their in the wilderness, not demons suckling Lilith.

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The Nectar of a Dream

Krysten sat on the edge of the swimming pool, in her blue and white swimsuit, long dark hair loose and free.

She smiled mischievously, a flash in her bright eyes, as if I were her boyfriend, these pictures just for us.

A rich friend of her’s place, a Saturday he was away, modeling shots for Grand Tetons’ calendar girl contest.

She sold the desire and connection, splashing her feet in the water, lounging on the diving board, come hither looks.

I captured it, the industrious bee, collecting the pollen of the moment, the nectar of a dream.

And it blossomed, bright and colorful in the sun, in the flower of artifice, the illusion of something true.

The summer afternoon fading, a storm darkening the blue sky, I told her her photos would be ready Tuesday.

She smiled, put on t-shirt and shorts over her swimsuit, cheap flip flops on her thin, pale feet.

Then I watched her go, another impossible crush, another star whose light was bright, but gave no warmth.

I packed my gear in the car, sat in the driver’s seat, listening to music sung in an Enochian tongue, and dream of her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The radio had ghostly voices waking me, after I left it on, finally collapsing, desperate for a human voice.

I saw no people out in these woods, no distant lights, or smoke curling up from a far off chimney, no cries or shouts or laughter out past the treeline.

I heard the ghostly voices, heard strongest a young woman singing, wavering and sorrowful, a hymn calling for God to come close us again, in this night.

My heart ached for the beauty of her song, and the lament within it. The nights always seem eternal, and God so distant since the war came, since we fell.

The young woman’s voice faded out, and it all became a swirling of lamenting voices, a whirlpool of cries into the wilderness, the endless void.

I fell asleep, and saw heartbreaking visions of what could have been, had we gone another way.

 

Orlando Winter

A young woman, awkward and gamine,

In a loud and rowdy bar, a snowy scene,

As winter pushes spring back and back.

This my little dream, facsimile of black.

 

Snow makes promises it never keeps.

The hopes of the addled it softly reaps.

Such a smile she has, I hang a star on it.

A stinging fool, the angry bee in a sonnet.

 

Comes a chronic shiftless unquiet.

The words burn, blister, run riot.

A beer, smooth and tasteless, to stay.

Once, in an Orlando winter, I knew to pray.

Dead Saints And Their Ghosts

Waitresses never keep their word, leave for Colorado with their best friend with the vintage golden Firebird, for UFO kicks in the dark, lonesome nowhere, playing songs no demons ever heard.

 

What does Wednesday night mean without trinkets for her absolution and the animal grace I’ve never seen, the high stars she cast on me for devouring the magic and hope that loss makes clean.

 

The college library has the sweet tomes of the pure, adolescent saint, shorn hair and strong and carrying banners to homes on the Seine, and of the Holy Grail, that she seeks as a ghost she roams.

 

Are dead saints and their ghosts and the impossible salve and glory of Christ’s blood all that I can adore as youth boasts a mass of revelry and bombast and the light of stars made surrogate hosts?

 

She is lingering, The Rockies so cold in the first of spring, snow lingering so devoutly in her brown hair. I’m too old to chase her, and the aliens come to me in this thickening town, all my prayers sold.

 

 

 

Cornfed Cinderellas

10 PM on a Sunday night,

The TV too much on my eyes.

Women’s volleyball game,

Iowa are cornfed Cinderellas.

Root for them, glory of the left behind,

And the dark haired girl I’ve made

My favorite.

 

Wind swept plains, still in snow,

And I imagine that dark haired girl

Came from a big farmhouse, and that

She could see the pupil of God’s eye

In the tearful and dark blue sky

Right before a storm.

 

The dark haired girl is poised to serve,

The moment where anything can be,

In the highest heaven and down to the

Wonders of the quarks and terrors.

It doesn’t have to burn away the dew

And we don’t have to fall like Lucifer

Or Icarus, burn or melt, kiss or sigh.

 

Try to sleep now, what’s done is done,

And what magic was sent has found her.

The TV still glowing mindlessly,

I look out the living room window,

The plains closed in by worn mountains

As I hope I dream of the dark haired girl,

Hope she is the ghost standing by the road.

 

Laughing Wraith

A morning in April,

My spirit soft and cool.

I want to see her again,

Though I’ll act the fool.

 

The sky gray downtown,

Remnant of late night rain.

Her name is Soledad,

Like Mary, alone she’ll remain.

 

A hard freeze this late,

She’ll wear that blue jacket.

In these blasphemous times,

Church is just another racket.

 

We’ll hear the Episcopalian choir

And remember childhood faith.

When even gray days were Eden.

The wind the laughing wraith.

 

Cold morning and we’ll get ice cream,

Eat in silence, content, but afraid.

Can God save us, does He love us,

Us on whom Christians have preyed?

 

We’ll see a movie on Gay Street,

A simple love story, so quiet, tender.

Sunday morning into afternoon,

An archangel coming, a magic lender.

Red Wine, Red Morning

New Year’s Eve, as the sun rises

Behind my house.

Bottle of wine, warmth in my chest,

Deceptive, like the changing of

The year.

The world is the world.

 

A war is coming, and we all burn

Paradise for profit, and God long

Abandoned us to our tears

And our demons.

The year changes, but nothing is

Ever closer to peace.

 

The stars retreat, a fading tide rolled back,

And the ocean of sunlight is crashing

Its waves on the sky.

Still drunk, still too afraid to hope,

I look on a new year almost here,

Knowing nothing else will change.

 

Lilac and Blue

Lilac and blue,

The sacred colors

Left behind;

What I cannot remember.

 

A ghost in dust,

That hides you away,

The desert vast, cold.

I choke on my tears.

 

In dreams we play.

I was not left behind.

You are whole, not an angel.

I can hug you close.

 

Winter, snow here.

The desert bitter, like me.

Bring her back,

And all the years between.

Wipe Away The World

Wipe away the world, this rain, I pray you do.

The velvet wings are so many, the kisses so few.

I dream of her and her firm, round, proud rear.

I may be in Nova Scotia come this time next year.

I could almost place her face, the angel she stole it from.

She gave me a hug, a kiss on the cheek; it struck me dumb.

In my dreams I man a lighthouse, and keep the crow fed.

She is slitting Satan’s throat as I lay half-awake in my bed.

I want to touch her face, lay kisses on her tears, make them bombs.

I live alone on the rocky island, and write novels read by soccer moms.

Her strong thighs I want as earmuffs, keeping out sound, letting me adore life.

I saw once an angel out of the corner of my eye, and he offered tea to his wife.