Awake in the night, watching sparse snow flakes fall,
wishing I could see the demon that is out there,
that can see me so clearly.
Hot, black coffee, because what is sleep? What are dreams?
Rebekah is in my mind, poetess, the impossible good thing.
Not her, not any other woman, will ever be at my side in these moments.
I lay down in my bed, knowing there is no hiding from the demon, he knows all.
My enemy is closer to me than any passing women ever was, knows me true.
The snow stops, the night goes on, and I dream of being innocent.
Of kissing Rebekah on our wedding day.
She’s wearing a long sleeved white sweater,
black capri pants, and plain white tennies.
Mother is fussing over her, smoothing her hair,
telling her it will be alright, she doesn’t need lucky pennies.
Her first date tonight, something like a normal kid,
something good in this world that’s taken so much.
She turns to me, the one found her that cold night,
when she was almost lost, beyond the sun’s touch.
Her eyes hopeful, but unsure, calling for reassurance.
I smile kiss her head, tell her it will be real swell time.
She smiles, all light from a vibrating star, her light
finally escaping a black hole, making dreams rhyme.
I take her picture, wanting to hold onto this moment,
hopeful and beautiful and sweet, after we almost lost her.
The demon did not win, we saved her in time, but he is patient.
I know that darkness falls again, can’t defeat, only defer.
The doorbell rings, and she squeals and is so ecstatic.
She found a boy who loves her, who will be her brave one.
Me and mother hug her, and then she runs to the door.
The boy is there, hugging her tight, consolation for what can’t be undone.
I had stopped smoking, but being around you again,
and the past and all it’s illness and missed opportunities,
I smoking like I used, like a freight train, one after another.
No beer or booze or even wine though, now. Just pots and pots
of piping hot black coffee, as we talk about The Hellhoud hunting us,
and The Demons that we cannot dislodge for our hearts.
And we talk of hope, some mad desperate push to win the day,
for the whole world not to burn in greed and arrogance, that love
might win it all in a lucky spin, like we always hoped it would in our youth.
We find a hipster radio station, from the state college 50 miles away from here,
that might as well be the moon, so far from this dying town, closed storefronts,
too many empty houses, and no dreams left to kindle bonfires beneath the stars.
It’s a love song, lovelorn and despairing, and it’s one you loved in our youth,
some once hot shit band past it’s prime and any popularity, just a footnote,
just that one song loved, like that one good story I have that I always tell strangers.
And like in our youth, in that one perfect night, the time you gifted me with my one good story,
we slow dance, and softly turn on bare feet on dirty floorboards, your head on my shoulder,
my face buried in you dark hair, full of the scent of strawberry shampoo, smell of hope, innocence.
And then, like before, we make love.
We are shivering under the covers, and in each others arms. It’s the end of September, and the cold
is coming, and the stars grow brighter but the sun grows dimmer, and all our dreams our dormant
until spring comes again, and we make believe they’ll come true.
I kiss you softly. I kiss your lips. I kiss your brow. You giggle when I kiss the tip of your nose.
Our breath is ashes and the sweetest bones in the galaxy. Like a dragon I feed on your ashes.
Like a dragon, and therefore your champion, Queen of the Moon, I slay every knight errand on principle.
The cold is coming. The sky is clear in the coming bitterness. Will you let me stay this time.
Will you tell me to go, like every time before, from graduation, to that Perfect Night, to the Breakdown.
I rather fight demons in the snow by your side, then be alone again, in Miami’s so called paradise.
And then, as morning breaks, we make love again.
And then, we finally sleep.
I sit in a swing, watching the house burn, the house where we were children.
Slowly push my self back and forth on tired legs, to dissassociative to care.
I’m watching myself, the orange flames ripping open the night on my face.
I’m a tin dime angel, addled brain almost touching heaven, which the flames reach.
I know you’re up in the sky, the eye in the moon, the listening dish, Sea of Tranquility.
You have that pilots clearance and the love of all that’s holy, good little princess.
I might have gotten something in my mind from kissing your older sister, a tumor.
I’m like neither of you, neither saint or demon, just at a loss for who to breathe in.
The house burns and I don’t care, not even my revenge gives me any feeling here.
I still float, brain damage and alcohol making me float, far away from you, in Tranquility.
The ashes always become embers, and I can never be free, my demons are invincible.
The Raptors are scrambled to take me to hell, still better than being a drone like you.
Still I have the name of love carved in my belly, without your name beside it.
Old elementary school playground, after another shitty, bad thought filled night.
No red wine. No French cigarettes. Nothing but the soft whispers of the starlight.
I could touch the sky on these swings as a boy, my feet licked by flames of the sun.
I could find the unicorn in the thick woods beyond the fence, convince everyone.
I listen to the stars whisper now, words beyond our fragile egos and desperation.
They grow impatient, like prophets, watch us burn and fight with exasperation.
A self-styled prophet talked to me today, over Pad Thai and endless glasses of tea.
He found the words for himself, writes them in misted tables, but leave me empty.
A guide to the ocean tells me of my foolishness and desperation and washing tide.
He knows my tricks and games, but has no gauze to staunch bleeding deep inside.
The three saints, their writ and scripture, was left in the receptacle for library sale.
I have to leave for the wilderness where the Satan waits, have to go, cannot fail.
The darkness of night is turning a navy blue, and the sun is coming around again.
In the quiet, in the sobriety of meditation, I cannot almost believe I can still the din.
Bad thoughts come and good thought come, and it all spins the wheel of the moon.
If the dream can bring the end to tears, then there is nothing more to pay the crying loon.
No heaven waits, No God or Father will one day wipe away these tears, but I can touch the air.
I can once again feel the sun licking my feet, and if I can accept the rains, I’ll have so much love to share.
Cara’s picture, torn from a fashion magazine,
is laid carefully in the center of the pentacle.
White candles, white light.
The demons have come; it is night time.
There is no rain to wash them from the windows.
There chattering draws blood from my dreams.
Cara is an angel from Hollywood Olympus, up in blue sky.
I invoke her youth and lust and wild heart in this night.
I want to be alive and real again.
The demons drag dead bodies from my memory.
They mock the corpses in the harsh light.
They grow powerful from this grave robbery.
Cara, I draw peace from her flesh, blood of her soul.
I draw the air of Hollywood Olympus into my lungs,
Let glamour win the day!
Morning, finally rain, knocking on my window,
to let the moths into breed and die and become seeds,
Cara is here, with a knife, to rectify the balance.
The snatching of purity was worth it.
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.