Tag Archives: loneliness

The Stars Pulling Off Their Masks

Smoking? When did I start smoking again?
Filterless Camels like before, one after another,
futile against stress, nerves and dead AM Channel static.
I realize I’m sitting alone again, looking down on the city,
waiting for it to beautiful in it’s distant, golden lights
as the sun goes down, and there another one in my fingers.
I don’t remember buying them. I don’t remember picking the habit
up again after all this time, and I don’t even remember driving here,
but here I am again, after work, not wanting to go home.
I sit on my car’s hood, windows down, an enveloping synthpop love song
playing, wrapping me in warmth and peace, like being hugged tightly
by a plump and soft woman, one who loves you dearly.
I stare out into the city lights coming up, the stars pulling off their masks,
and, as I work my way through the pack of smokes, dream of her,
the earth goddess, the one who plucks the strings of devotion, thrumming light.
The song plays on repeat. It is the first of autumn, and it’s growing chilly,
almost bitter as the sun fades away, but the cold is calming, peaceful,
reminds me of something lost, when all was well.
I cannot keep the Bad Thoughts away forever, not with the city lights,
the stars showing me their faces, or the beautiful, embracing love song.
The come again and again, and maybe the stress is why I forget so much.
One last cigarette, and then I’ll have to face the room without treasures,
the thoughts that intrude like a rude neighbor couple screaming at each other
at 3 AM, hating each other, unable to leave and unable to stop.
I try to hold onto her, and the music, and all the sweet and innocent things
that slip away from me, harder and harder to call back all the time.
I try to imagine kissing her, warm and pale lips. I try to imagine being full of love,
Like her.

Some Beauty Out In Cali

The city is sprawled out beneath, almost looks like magic from up here.
The sun is gone and there are no stars and I just want to forever disappear.
The city is sprawled out in golden veins and pinpoint stars in the valley.
I watch it all, above this city for once, dreaming of some model out in Cali.
Some beauty strong and lithe and who would party with me when I get there.
Some beauty in a swimsuit blue and white, and with a blue lilac in golden hair.
The city is sprawled and from here it looks like something glorious and bold.
Forget summer is fading, and she left me, and the nights are getting cold.
Some beauty out in Cali knows my name, and has a devil’s pearl in her eye.
Some beauty out in Cali will make love to me, and then we’ll cuddle, get high.
The city is sprawled like a sleeping maiden, vulnerable and bright and sweet.
But there is no beauty up close, there is no lover here, there is no magic on my street.
Some beauty out in Cali watches the storm roll in with the churning silver surf.
If I can find my way out west I will be in her arms, an alien on this morbid earth.

I Fear I Am Boring You

I see you getting antsy, checking your phone,
growing restless.
I’m sorry. I try to find words to say.
Something interesting to say.
Even a joke, if that’d keep you here.
Don’t go. Please, don’t leave me.
Talk to me. About anything. Literally anything.
Your favorite band is a band I hate, but I want
to hear all about them and their genius from you.
Talk about last semester in nursing school.
Talk about that bitch Skylar and the shit she pulled.
Talk about vacations to places I could never afford to go.
Talk about anything. I will listen. I will care.
Don’t go. Please don’t leave me.
Please, don’t leave me.

Starlings Read The Sky

The Ivory Tower That Welcomes The Lost

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.

The Refusal of The Stars to Call Down Angels

A fat, broken down old man I am,
out at this cold and godless hour
walking my snow white wolf-dog
because my home, my room,
had become torture, brokenness,
The Devil never quiet or letting me be.
A week, I’ve stopped craving cigarettes,
but still too much booze, in fact, I swig
from my hip flask, potent Russian Spirits,
and feel a deceptive warmth, rushed stillness,
a giddy dream from burning tomorrow,
burning the morning when I could be useful.
A young woman, maybe 19, short brown hair
and a milk pale face, blue eyes as deep and pure
as an ocean I saw once, with a young woman,
maybe 19, who loved me, took me beneath waves
and laid kisses and passion upon me, and I have
worshipped her memory evermore, evermore.
A young woman, she looks up at me, lights up,
ecstatic and running towards me, it’s the wolf-dog,
who is jumping in place and shaking her head, howling,
as the young woman crouches before her, shakes her fur,
and makes baby voices at her, and my wolf-hound
licks her face, nuzzles her face, is in love forever.
“Such a sweetie!” the young woman exclaims,
“Such silky fur! Such a good girl!”
And I watch them together, wishing love was so
easy for me to show, to give, to be carless with it
and throw it around like confetti on New Years Eve
or candies on Halloween, which past, and it is cold.
“Thank you!” I say, take a swig of Russian Spirits,
as the young woman stands up and offers her hands.
I take it and we shake, and her palm is soft and warm
and enveloping and has never known a days hard work,
and I am jealous and sad for her, and still feeling stirrings
of love and reverence, even though I am old and left behind.
The young woman blows my wolf-hound a kiss, smiles at me
and waves goodbye, and hurries back to her friends who are
boisterous and laughing and doubtlessly heading to mischief
and shenningans and things that will either shine in the stars
or burn their flesh and dreams forever after the morning.
I watch the young woman and her friends move on, gone.
My wolf-dog lays down, head on her paws, whimpering.
More Russian Spirits, more defeated prayers, more solace
in Winter Cold and refusal of the stars to call down angels
and my wolf-dog, like me, falls so easily, so perfectly,
for kindness and enthusiasam, and a touch giving kindly,
even though they hurry on to something better, something brighter.
There will be no sleep tonight. There will be no peace. Wolf-dog will be at my feet.

Cuts Like A Childhood Kiss

She stands, sad, as far away as heaven,

in her stylish black tank top and jean shorts.

Her long, thin arms are strong with nothing

but their own hands to hold, disobedient children.

Was there a demon or angel walking by,

whispering in her ear or blowing kisses?

Was there a ghost, of something traded

or cast aside, golden apples rotten in windfall?

Then she’s “ON”. The smile sweet from her

harsh face, that cuts like a childhood kiss.

Angel and demon made her, and her light

is the eclipse half-light, crimson and bitter.

Cameras steal a piece of a moment, make a

soul a quotation and shard in the eye of men,

and the lonely or just lustful, or those all three.

A piece of a soul, a moment, to embrace the world.

Then she’s “OFF”. The mermaids swim to the top of

her thoughts and bring the leviathan tagging along,

the waters between dreams and flesh and what comes after

all lined up and bleeding her thoughts, but only sadness shows.

Without The Touch

A year without sun. Without the touch of another.

               I sleep, keep the lights out, dream of unspoiled paradise.

               The war came. The world burned. It’s all gone.


               There’s a calendar. Pretty women on the beach.

               The blue tropical waters. The warmth of the flesh.

               My heart still races. They’re all gone.


               I dream of my favorite. We swim and play in the waves.

               We make love beneath the stars. We are free of the past.

               I wake up crying. I’ll never see another person again.


               The war came. The world burned. It’s all gone.

Mermaid Queen

Momma, momma,


          come back to me.


          Daddy tells me


          that you are a


          mermaid queen,


          living beneath the


          blue, blue, waves.


          Daddy says


          in the ocean you’ll


          live through all eternity.


          But momma, can’t return


          ever for an afternoon


          to be by my side?


          Momma, hold me in


          the breakers tenderly,


          rock me as the water


          rushes over my head.


          Momma, momma,


          come back to me


          or carry me back


          to the deep kingdom


          you preside over,


          with sitting beside


          your golden throne.


          Momma, momma


          come back from the sea.


          Daddy says


          you’re a mermaid queen,


          but you’re my momma too,


          come be with me.

Walking Home To Cambridge

Walking home to Cambridge, leaving London, leaving the lights,

those shining places, that thunderous sound, those lovely young girls.

I saw the face in a shadow and it walks with me as I’m going home again,

but home is not the place for me now; only my mind holds any dream for me.


The leaves are golden and yellow and bright, bright red, the sky a soft blue.

I dream of Emily dancing in the grass. A song playing seemed like it told everything

as she turned to me and smiled, long chestnut locks falling over her wicked eyes.

I dream of making love under stars, her softness and warmth, not that she left me behind.


The road is endless, and even when I’m back in my Cambridge home, it will travel on.

The road doesn’t end at the door, or in my bed. There’s not a woman waiing for me with

welcoming arms and a kiss on my grizzled cheek. Not a woman here to wipe away my tears.

I’m traveling down that road even standing still, with the shadows and demons picking skin.


In my old room, with that plastic rocket ship and tattered poster of Marilyn Monroe ,

the records grown dusty, the bed weighed down by the universe and the scoured mind.

I hope in dreams I can catch Emily’s hand again, and call her down like an angel of devouring.

Dreams, the only place to run, the only refuge in a blacked out mind. Count the cost of desire.