Will We Go Together To The Sea?

In the mountains, by the Alleghany River,
we hang out in a bare white room,
listening to chirpy pop music,
talking about God a mile a minute.
Your hair is pink again, and you
wear that ragged army jacket
your dad wore when he was in,
torn jeans, worn down Chuck Taylors.
God, something more, escape,
all the scattered broken glass thoughts
tossed out onto the floor helter-skelter,
making pretty colors for a moment.
I smoke another ciggie, try and keep up
and add my own colors and shards,
though I should just let you talk,
have the floor, and just follow you down.
We go outside this tired and weighed
down house that slumps it’s shoulders
and sighs with the excess of the wet winter
and misty morning, never ending rain.
You put you head on my shoulder.
Impulsively, I kiss your bright hair.
I think you smile. You don’t pull away.
You take my hand in yours.
The river down below, you say,
is like us in  time, just flowing on,
until the end, death, the sea,
where we are all together in heaven.
We are quiet then, and still, and the
come down is sweet and warm
in our sleepless eyes and thrumming hearts.
I want to travel with you, down to the sea.

Cooing Dove

Her buzzcut was growing out,
> A fine tawny bristle on her head.
> Same cool, bottle green eyes
> That took devotion as their daily bread.
>
> Thin fingers, hand rolled cigarette,
> She cut the deck, showed the Death Knight.
> She exhaled pungent smoke, ghostly smile,
> Then the name of God she did slowly write.
>
> A name that drew blood in my amoral heart
> And gave her the only peace in her dreams.
> My lover was a fickle thread in stained cloth
> And that name was the strength in the seams.
>
> I ate the note, which tasted of honey,
> And the name pinpricked my lover’s tears.
> The woman before me offered wine, wrath,
> But I made my sword a plowshare many years.
>
> I kissed her head, golden bristle like a bird,
> Her eyes stole a daydream of us making love.
> It was another wing, a beleaguered seraphim.
> Her face was quickly hidden by a cooing dove.


Harsh With Peppermints

Her breath was hot and wet,
Harsh with peppermint.

Her hair fell loose, veiled our faces,
As the stars sighed and were spent.

July 6th, but still fireworks explode,
Low rent razzle dazzle in the night.

She is thin, small chested, taut wire,
And a new Athena now in my sight.

This is life wanting to plant seeds of death,
To make and nurture an inevitable loss.

I am a pilgrim of pleasure, devoted to her,
Ignoring the light reflected in her gold cross.

Her hand is sweaty, moist, in my own.
She hums a love song as we walk up stairs.

On her thin, hard bed we quietly make love.
Passions, like angels, are made to be pairs.

Child of Wonder

Cold desert night, first of August.
The old, metal building rusting out.
This is where he said she came.

The stars have never been so indifferent.
No angels, aliens, anything else coming.
Just bright light left on in an empty room.

“She glowed with inner light!” he said.
“She was a gentle sun and star!”
I remember the love and awe in his eyes.

This gutted ruin was their home.
Here miracles happened.
No light here now.

“She loves you very much.” he told me.
“You are her very own.”
“You are a child of wonder.”

No remnants of them now.
Dad long dead. The angelic woman?
Was she real? Was she only his dream?

No one in the stars. No flight to eternity.
My heart aches looking up, wanting more.
Wanting something I cannot find in this world.

Horror And Lightness

Space between the air.
Beyond seeing, but not feeling,
I know she watches.

A face behind the eyes
Of a swimsuit model’s poster,
Tempting me to leave.

The sex and the sorrow,
The promise of a mystery
Beyond what I see.

The promise that she
Can look like that model
And that she can heal my scars.

Horror and lightness, like first desire,
Fill my lost and empty heart,
As a Cara and not a Joan promise

The sea where demons stay asleep
And that flesh and spirit make the stars
And the moon will always be the eye.

From behind the eyes of a swimsuit model
She beckons, the sweet and little death
Of washing away sorrow with magic.

“Will you come?”

“Will you come?”

We Are Not Married


No Quiet Sleep

We both snap awake, in the cold light of morning.

Cannons, gunfire, in the distance, grow ever closer.

We hold close, knowing we have to leave.

Knowing we have no place to go.

Dressed, and carrying all that we can that we need,

we leave our home, our entire world, behind.

There are no friends in this war, only enemies.

Both sides will kill us on sight.

We walk for days, not knowing where to go to,

where we will be safe again, if that’s even real.

We take turns sleeping and taking the watch,

with just a rickety .22 and one box of bullets.

End of another day, haven’t outrun the cannons,

but we lie side by side, looking up at the heavens,

and awed by it’s austere and cold beauty.

They are simple gods who do not intervene.

No eden in the forest, no quiet sleep of death.

We make our way and we make something of a life,

in the wilderness, glad to have love and each other.

But you can’t escape the world. There’s always another war.

The Little Death of Icarus


Angel? Demon?

I wake up again in the back seat.
It’s almost dawn. I came about midnight.

There’s a fading cold in my head.
My heart thuds. My blood thick.

The same song plays on the radio.
Do you know angel from demon?

Her face, bone white, sharp, cruel.
Giant dark almond eyes. See it all.

The anesthetic lingering of dreams.
I am mute and on autopilot going back.

Her face, her serpent kisses, her lies.
I am father to another, a new kind of child.

No work until tonight, until the dark.
Windows covered. No light to burn me.

She is in my dreams, just as real there.
Our daughter grows her wings to cut me.

Many daughters, to take down ruling men.
Pretty faces with venom in their serpent kisses.

Softly, She Sings Of Paradise

Mary in white has come out in the dark.
She softly sings of paradise.
The stars are as weary as her of this road.
Who is coming down the road tonight?

Mary sings that song, love ballad and hymn.
Memories in mist of her man, spring formal.
That song for them and their very first kiss.
Someone will come along, get her home.

Mary gets in a boy’s car, she’ll be home.
She is silent, he pratters on. She’s impatient.
She wants home, warmth and her man.
So lucky someone came along this night.

The boy gets her there, but house is empty.
He turns, and Mary’s gone, nothing stayed.
His heart races, cold sweat, hurries home.
Mary is waiting for another to take her.

The stare are as weary as her of this road.