Up above the city, the vein of gold in the darkness,
looking up at those white and distant stars,
hoping to feel humbled and small, so none of these
sorrows will matter anymore.
Maybe a star will fall, like Lucifer from Heaven,
and I can go hunt down that fallen angel, and keep
him from adding to what’s already been done,
stop a bit of the violence that always going on.
Maybe a good angel, a real angel, will come down
and impart a message, whisper God’s Will in my ear,
so I can know where to go, what to do, what words to speak.
Maybe I’ll be chosen. God always chose to use fuck ups in The Bible.
Maybe, the cool wind that is a soothing balm in this blasted
July heat, and the softness of the call of insects, the hooting
of nocturnal birds, and the feeling of being between worlds,
above man, below God, will soothe all those writhing thoughts.
Me and Claudia party down in heaven,
the night warm and the music full of fire.
Eyes meet, and it all passes away, as we smile.
The pain, the loss, the addictions that burned us.
All gone now.
We walk on the beach on the ocean that surrounds
the throne of God, bright and shimmering in the dark.
We hold hands, we kiss, we laugh in the waves.
I pick her up, spin her around, nothing bad here.
All gone now.
Her fiery hair bright like bronze in a furnace,
her pale face as white as our souls are now.
A kiss can really make the universe open up forever.
We are clean again, the poisons drained away.
All gone now.
Only love and forever here.
The dead of night without dreams.
Sleepless, sitting in a darkened kitchen,
drinking piping hot coffee, looking out
on the street lit only by sickly streetlamps.
The demons run riot, kicking up a stir,
though I may look calm, and dead eyed stare,
out at the quiet world that gets to rest.
The demons always run riot, never let me be.
The coffee is hot, and harsh, and bitter,
and it keeps me connected to this world,
and it’s alkaline pleasures and hard touch.
A simple thing on a sleepless night.
A ritual to get through, as reverent in it’s
banal steps to make something I don’t need
as any religious ceremony, made for communion.
A ritual for one, who is not even a supplicant.
Maybe for a moment, just a moment, there is
quiet and the demons winding down to gnaw
on a pleasurable memory or a tender place so sacred.
Maybe I can distract them with some anger or bitterness.
Soon, the day begins, and I put on my smile and laugh
and go through it all again, as the demons ruin everything
and nothing sacred stays in my heart, and the devil beats
his wife on a sunny day, that is just a well lit rainstorm.
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.
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 wailing 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.
The mad heart flies to the to heaven,
to the eternal and tender blue above,
to the dreaming sky that can soothe
it’s sores and scars and pinprick kisses.
The stars where the soft angels singing
in the quiet moments when dreams
crashed on shores sparkling in moonlight
and a girl who came before thunder held me.
In my dark room, sleepless, stockpiling wonder
as the time trickles like blood from tips of pens
and the invocations and memories they write,
to make a roughshod heaven of my disgrace.
And the stars weep ice and cherry blossoms,
as I call her back, the last hurrah for innocence,
to the empty place in my bed, and I call back that kiss,
that came too late to save me, but was only sweetness before death.
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.