Telepathic starlings told me here name, as they dived and swirled in a blue and cherry morning.
Her name, on her heart and the rays of the warming sun, and the defiantly reflective moon now.
A name can made a god in troubled time, an icon in the dark of a room, privacy of a song in headphones.
Walking in the still cool morning, the ripening morning becoming the flower of youth as I pass old places
where the war in heaven was fought and lost, and only a unstable and desperate moment believed won,
years later, years after the scare were permanent and the wings clipped, only seeds remaining to flower.
She might be there, at the end of the road, tree lined and by fenced in fields gone fallow, as birds starve.
She might be a friend, but I want only that, though I want her as lover and wife, I must turn away that dream.
Tips buy time and the illusion of light, but I cannot touch the real light now, having fallen so far, so far below the ground.
And her name makes the nights full of words and paradises constructed from imaginings desperate, sweet and mad.
These worlds the name opens up will suffice, as I wait for the hangman and the stillness that pleads for me.
The stillness in the night, we’re music stops, and dreams can’t be bothered, and sleep is a drug of no import.
Las Vegas is bright by it is light invisible. There is nothing revealed. There is no warmth.
The songs of my youth, of infatuation and sorrow, call only ghosts whose teeth draw blood.
All night I was awake. All that came were bad memories. Aching for sweet things lost.
Nothing soothes this longing, for what I once held close, and for what’s never been.
The sun is coming up, and to the east, away from the city, it is blinding.
On the edge of the desert, a square of green dead ends into coarse sand.
Stately and new houses already abandoned, and I was late to the party.
Their are only ghosts here, and skittering shadows inside that don’t know my name.
Coffee at a kitchen table in a house that looks cozy, but demons ruin everything for me.
All my treasures and comforts offer nothing, where I have only time, and my buzzing thoughts.
I can remember the girl that bought me the poster for some obscure Russian art film I loved.
But she is gone, and I am here, and I can’t find where my new friends are waiting for me.
Coffee in a travel cup, a thin sweatshirt and sweatpants, and I’m heading to the desert.
There is an angel there, there is a tower of bright light and ivory, where she welcomes the lost.
She will hear the honeyed prayers and grant me rest, show me the way back to a home in this world.
Out in the desert she waits, the sun would not lie to me, would not lead me astray.
But still, there’s a gun in the glove compartment, if I’m let down one more time.