Tag Archives: crush

Kicked Up In April

The cocktail waitress smoked a menthol cigarette,

saying it cleared out the snot and crap from her head,

left her sinuses dry as a bone, as pollen kicked up in April.

Out in the back of the restaurant, five minutes for a smoke,

before she went back to smiling for ogling men, fake flirtation,

and being a pretty dream for hopefully big tips.

I was smoking too, as night fell, and the hot afternoon faded.

I was in love with her, and was glad to be alone with her,

away from the sweltering, stifling, and noisy kitchen.

We looked up at the sky, a barren and cold and unbroken black,

with two, maybe three weak and blown out stars, and no moon.

So little in the banal lights of the city to dream upon.

Then a bright, bright red light streaked across that flat black,

zigged up and zagged down and made impossible moves,

leaving an open cut on the sky that bled for a few seconds, then faded.

Then it streaked off, gone forever.

The cocktail waitress stubbed her cigarette on the wall, sighed out her smoke,

Aliens, she said, their watching us, manipulating us, cross breeding us,

and we sold ourselves out for not even thirty pieces of silver, just some toys,

She goes inside, to smile and perform, and I’m alone in the cooling night.

This not our world, not even the world of the powerful, but the demonic hands they kiss.

The weight of that black sky that held only fallen angels was unbearable.

I too, went inside.

Not A Kiss

Emily Jane and me sharing a cigarette.

Not a kiss. Not a kiss. Not a kiss.

Emily Jane says the flaming, circling swords

keep her out of the one place that was warm.

I lay beside her on the bare mattress,

watch her play a fantasy video game.

The boy in the game wins a princess.

In her life she won wisdom, patience, agape.

It’s dark at four in the afternoon, storm outside.

The grey is soothing and comforting; we are safe.

She plays the game, and we share silence, perfection.

Lust and tenderness as I watch the lights on her face.

Afterwards, almost six, I make us cheese sandwiches.

We drink cold glasses of milk, as the sky rumbles in anger.

She’s going to do mission work in Kentucky tomorrow, early.

I’m going too. She’ll never be mine, but I want to be like her.

Artifice Joy

This set, where the young lover lived,

a cozy apartment above Chinese take-out

and boutiques and a distant, false,

Greenwich Village street.

I sit here, on the bed, the set dresser’s

idea of what a young woman’s bric-a-brac

would be, as the century burns out, exhausted.

I smoke French cigarettes. I dream of her.

The young lover, the actress refined, sharp,

in fine clothes and soft, consuming white furs,

the warmth swallows you into sleep, dreams

of what you hide behind your bed.

The fur hat, Russian Grand Duchess of a

strongman’s age, 22 is made for serpent kisses,

and she is soft and timeless as alabaster statue

in ruins on the street in Alexandria.

I am not a Christian; I’d have to be human first,

and I put the sigil under the bed for when the

young lover and the handsome lead have their

love scene, to mainline the glamour, artifice joy.

I dream of her, make her face into an angel’s laughter,

or a distant, beatific restlessness as I sleep in this bed,

home being where The Devil is waiting for me, and I know,

if he offered the chance to be her, I’d take it. I’d take it.

Where does one get French cigarettes at 2 a.m., in London,

when the angel’s are all stuck hustling tricks by Picadilly Circus,

and I have to slice off the instrument of hate, to be whole,

to not spread tears. Her tears would heal me. Fucking shakes!

The Devil is waiting for me, and I know if her offered the

chance to be her, I’d take it. I’d take it.


French accent as thick and sweet as an eclaire.

Rag tag and bright are warm clothes you wear.

I see oceans and Rivera skies in your blue hair.

High fashion, cool, something French New Wave.

You and me, dining and dancing, no world to save.

I would be your man, and I would always be brave.

Sharing a cigarette under a black umbrella, content.

Walking hand in hand, not caring were the night went.

I dream these things, of love of you; Dreams don’t repent.

France Gall, chirpy and naïve, plays on my headphones.

In passing we are friends, and I put that flesh on bones.

Dreams are the river washing smooth discontented stones.

Morning Is The Gift of Light

Walking through The Fort on my way to work,
coldest morning yet this fall, wearing my heavy coat
instead of my soft and comforting hoodie.
The sun is just shaking itself awake, sluggishly, tiredly,
trying to shake off sleep, the lethargy of the nighttime
and light our way down here again.
Rebekah, a brilliant poet friend, is on my mind, my heart.
I hold onto the tender thoughts she brings, let the rising sun
and my adoration of her light my way in a roiling world.
Love, when the world is burning, and heaven looks away.
Be a star amidst the flames, light instead of raging heat.
Rebekah’s words echo, and she and the sun show the way.



Lauren is from a North Carolina town,
and I cast my eyes down when I see her.
I want to be her man, but I don’t like who I am,
I don’t know what demon rides me, burns me.
 Lauren says she’s singing at the Pilot Light,
and I’d love to stand out there in the dark
and watch her glow like an angel in the light.
I’d love to be the pure hearted admirer, giving his heart.
 I sit on the roof with a bottle of red wine, while parties go
and people shout and laugh, and unaware people live life.
Drunk and dreaming of her face, her light, her sweet voice.
I love her, and that’s why I’m turning away.

Broken Hearts and Paradise

Feeling like it was just a dream I wasn’t awake for.
Feeling like it was missing time in the daylight hours.
I walk into a bar, loud and dark and full of cigarette smoke.
I sit at the first empty place, and look up onto the stage.
A young woman, thin and wispy as the cigarette smoke,
and as angelic as that girl who first stole your heart,
when you were still innocent and free.
She sings of lost love and broken hearts and paradise.
She sings above the deathless noise of the world.
I love her; she reminds of something precious that was lost.
I love her; her soft and wild beauty makes me feel alive.
I love her; but I look away as the song ends,
and she says goodnight, and I am alone again,
with all the things in my head I can’t heal or silence.

Chasing A Kiss

“Tag!” You cry. “You’re it!”
And you run into the woods,
 white dress stark against
 the dark blue twilight.
I chase you, following
 the slash of white
 in the darkness.
My heart racing,
 my chest fluttering,
 I try to find you.
I hear your laughter.
 I spot you from
 the corner of my eye.
Into the forest as
 the night falls
 ever and ever darker.
If I can catch you,
 if I win the game,
 you will kiss me.
I run and run and run.
 I almost catch you.
 You’re still out of reach.
I can never touch you.
 I will never kiss you.
 You never finish a dream.

Due North

The all night snack bar, by the drawbridge, almost morning.
Hot coffee can’t burn away the fog in my head, or seer the
sorrow of my heart, the constant chasing of her.
She smiles and I cast down my eyes. She knows. She knows.
Work’s coming up fast and I’ll have to go, and I’m so nervous
about stealing looks, but I’m a compass, she’s due north.
What I wouldn’t give to be someone real and confident,
who could give whatever it she’s looking for, what dream,
to ride off in my trash car to a better life.
I throw away the empty styrofoam cup, and give her a smile,
which she returns, and a little wave. I know I should never
come back her again, that it only hurts to see her.
But I point, ever and always, Due North.


Walking with you.
We’re laughing.
Falling into each other.
So goddamn drunk.
Your body is soft.
You feel so warm.
You smile sweetly.
Fingers lace into mine.
Stop at your door.
We say goodnight.
You blow me a kiss.
Then you go inside.
Incidental touches.
A warm, tender smile.
Little endearments.
That you have time for me.
I make worlds from these.