Tag Archives: escape

Blue, My Favorite Color

The train rocks and shimmies and shakes,

and it almost lulls me to sleep, half awake,

like an infant in her mother’s arms.

No lullabies.

The brown townhouses, the little yards,

lights on in second story windows, life,

like tableaux for my god like eyes.

I am not godlike.

The Atlantic, I imagine cold, gunmetal gray,

and deep and as empty as the sky above it,

which will, perversely, be blue and bright.

Blue, my favorite color.

I sit on the beach, the Atlantic Blue, eternal,

and not a cloud in the sky, I drink iced tea.

I finish it, go under, lost like a drop in infinity.

Cold water doesn’t feel.

Simple, But Beautiful

Blue dress, simple but beautiful,

down to the tips of her soft shoes.

Wide brimmed hat, shaded eyes,

a pretty outfit she did not once choose.

The night is wet, just after a late rain,

and it’s so still as Sunday Morning comes.

She hears his car coming up the road,

the bass thumping like timpani drums.

She could run to Alberta prairies with him,

to the place he’s made for them to start anew.

A place quiet, away from a sleeping world,

with pretty flowers sparkling with spring dew.

She could stay in this town that feels is taking

all that she cherished, all that the angels command.

But does this man love her, or is she a dream?

Chose this dress; what else will he always demand?

His car is coming, too fast, too loud, and she sighs.

Will he grow bored, will her grow mean, up in the plains?

The world is the world, wherever you runaway to,

same heartache and tears and emotional strains.

She’ll have to choose, stay or go, run or fight,

go with this man, or find another way to be alive.

The blades of fate cut you skin whichever way you go,

but there must be a way in this darkness to thrive.

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.

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?”

Perfected Skin

Swimsuit model, with long dark hair,

a glint in her blue eyes; devil may care!

Lithe and strong, flesh made taut as wire,

like iron on the anvil, made strong for desire.

In azure waters, sparkling like blue jewels,

in places so distant from mortal rules,

she is goddess and siren, and she calls, calls,

to some dream beyond my madness and falls.

On my wall, queen of my restless fantasies,

with her in wild islands and warm tropical seas.

A carnal heaven, lust and love made one, perfected skin.

A place where what’s coming can’t find me ever again.

Elfin Cheyenne

The winter sky ragged and silver, like ice unevenly scraped off a windshield on a bitter January morning.

Cheyenne, elfin Cheyenne, thin and proud and bright, a young woman with blood under her fingernails

and the golden hue stolen from the summer harvest in her shock of hair, the brown dirt on the shorn sides.

We smoke cigarettes beneath Father’s bedroom window, conspirators and comrades, all around rogues,

telling crude and cruel jokes, planning our escape to the sunny land of San Diego, made Eden in our minds.

We have a bottle of liquor set aside when we finally make it across the tall and high suicide bridge together.

The hopeful twilight of first cracks in the morning, Venus disinclined to fuck off, and she tells us secrets of

the places the dead know to score peace and magic, and the ground dust of the fairies who once betrayed us.

We will line them up like pixie sticks, the innocent cocaine, and regain what they took while our heads were turned.

And Little Cheyenne, who can not be made redundant due to madness and malcontentedness in extravagant living,

tells me after she gets done bussing the tables at the Paradise Grove Club, off of 75 on the abandoned Kentucky border,

we’ll get this tenuous and sweet reaching for the sun well and truly done, in her beat up CRX we’ll cross the desert that

claimed Mother all those years ago, and we’ll triumph over the boney and icy fingers of angels, delighting in squeezing our hearts.

I hug her tight, thinking this is the perfect moment, knowing it will happen, but it has not yet come.

Child Of The Sun

No Promise of Outer Space

Black leather and denim hoodie, the hood drawn over her face.

               An old ‘70s Yamaha motorbike, a faded and flecked blue.

               Drizzly rain, clouds a crown on a starry night,

               No promise of outer space.


               Death and life in the smell of gasoline, the fire of damnation

               And fuel of the frontier, the scream of speed into darkness.

               I got on the motorbike behind her, press myself to her,

               No promise of heaven, only escape.


               One jammed open eye showing light on the empty highways,

               From the bleak valleys of these Appalachian Mountains,

               To the arid plains, on our way to the Sea of Cortez,

               No promise of love, only of sweetness.


               Asleep beneath the sky, the air chill and the stars endless,

               My head on her shoulder, watching her breathe, at peace.

               Sleeping bag snug for two, as if her skin could swallow me.

               No promise of dreams, only hope.

Warm Through Leather

Old motorbike, white and blue, new tires, full tank.

The moon pushes the sun in an argument of their rank.

So few stars here, even in the mountians, so few points of light.

Kickstart the engine. Her head on my shoulder, arms holding tight.


In the dark, the shard of the white headlight cutting into the black,

heading to someplace promised in a dream, and we’re never coming back.

The small, ramshackle houses give way to only trees and the battered highway.

Her body is against mine, and warm through leather, and showing the lost way.


The broken promises and the lost live and the bitter things that were our future,

the dreams and love and threadbare hope we had to hold on to and bitterly suture,

The sense that’s there a place in the sun or in the night or that there’s a kiss from the moon,

trying not to burn away our hope and sweetness, for something ours, that’s our sacred boon.


So over the mountain, to a place promised in a dream, to some place safe and beautiful,

where our love will grow, and our life will be something good, and laughter is pletiful.

She holds on and I can feel her breathing, I can feel her heart race, I can feel our weight.

We got to go to a place promised in dream, got to escape this place, before it’s too late.


Down To The Sea

I ride the train, down to New Orleans, down to the sea.

Scars and tattered dreams and my love are all that’s with me.

I hear the sea is golden as the sun rises over it in the morning.

I hear her name, I hear her voice, breaking me without warning.


That house is ashes now. May it burn forever in the pits of hell.

That town is long gone behind me, the pain still clear as a bell.

I walk on the beach, the star light washing me clean of blood.

I carry something inside of me. I carrying something damned as a bud.


That blue water, that golden sun, that desperate hope for an end.

Yet the angels burn our eyes with their holy flames on the wind.

If I sleep I’ll dream of a sea where sirens sing what I never heard.

My thought pecked out of my skull by a pair of black singing birds.