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.
Her hair dyed mint and teal, like summer.
A Holy Afternoon, she’s shelving books.
In pages I’m looking for God, Home and
a young woman named Alexandria.
That hair of hers, the color of a favorite toy,
a ’65 Mustang, I pretended to drive to LA.
What worlds does she know, what worlds shine,
in soft brown eyes, in the curated childhood chapel?
It might not be Pandemonium in me, not even a suburb,
just a lens that needs cleansed, and maybe we’d be infinite.
I make jokes checking out, and try to make them magic spells.
It never seems right to ask about a show down at the club.
But words I use to try and find the sky, and learn her truth,
and capture the light in these lines, that shine from soft, brown eyes.
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.