Santa Monica

I guess we drank wine, I don’t recall but a Polaroid tells me we did.

I lost track of time, all around me the world continued to spin.

Not like you were mine, I just talked to you when you came around.

I guess it was kind, of like two kids on a merry-go-round.

You wrote me a letter, from Santa Monica in June.

You said you felt better, and that you thought I’d like it too.

Come in December, and we could write poems in the park.

Then there was that blizzard, that left New York alone in the dark.

I was alone in the dark.

I guess that it’s time, to burn these memories you left behind.

I never did find, a more honest friend or a beautiful mind.

I hope that you found, the world that you set out to see.

And know that I’ll be, singing this from across the sea.

Like Wicker Passed Round Midnight’s Mass

I dare not blame the 14 Hands

for feelings I have felt

Where midnight and I meet

the moon’s shadow can’t dispel

In daylights saving grace

I justly feel that I have felt

like wicker passed round midnight’s mass

each hand is doleful dealt

that old hotel

Each drive cross country

I’ve laughed, I have

Cried

Sang

Danced

Purged

Prayed

Lost and

Loved.

Etcetera,

etc…

So if you decide

to drive across state lines,

could you do me a solid?

Stop in Fayetteville.

See if that old hotel

is still standing,

the one I first told her I loved her,

—bedbugs and us—

before sleep took her away

and that cheap wine

nursed me tender

til morning’s

cruel light.

But how will you know

that old hotel? Well,

it’s just like all the rest now

I’m sure, remodeled to dust.

Another ghost among the many,

love’s whisper in the wind.

another night

At the end of the day

I am nothing but

sweat and fat

and bad breath

and poems

strewn out among sage

and corkscrew, lighter, and coffee mug

wine and love for it all

all the things that I have carried

and still carry till this day

another night

another light

twinkling in the Friday night hysteria

of weekend fun

unseen.

Individual Sadness.

We each have our own

individual sadness.

Like a fine wine.

I drink it down.

Some tastes better

than others.

I drink hers down.

Then open another bottle.

We much prefer red over white.

Dry over sweet.

Though there have been those who’ve poured

and those who’ve carelessly spilled.

But none like this.

None so direct.

Covered in a deep, warm red

I much prefer her careful aim

as she throws the Cab into my face –

Betty Davis style.