SIRENS

Id rather have ninjas sneak up and kill me in a desolate, dark wilderness

Than these harmless, clunkering bodies milling around me constantly in this city.

Slamming their car doors...helicopter wings loudly breaking a stinking wind, dogs barking, cars passing by in a stolen night

That's just not mine.

More prone to gazing at a blazing, peach-amber street lamp than a full moon..

Bluish, spotted like the foot of a fine cigar not fully lit.

Double vision as I sit.

In a world with newly found, two illuminescent bodies I menage-a-trois with.

Trains screeching in the distance. Last stop before a train yard... Retiring.

I know the sound of tires violating the man hole covers.

The quick ins and outs of a one night stand.

Lingering slightly too long in a gear as u speed.

The bucking when u shift, excitement of nostalgia.

Two quick,  one long as I draw you in.

The North star above us as I close my eyes and you make my head spin.

A chill in the Autumn air that freezes my finger tips.

The tingle as your rush presses against my lips.

I contemplate a respite to cover myself from your bliss.

The speeding, cars and planes and trains that shatter the wind in such a seductive way,

Call to me to join their fray,

With urgency like sirens...

Let me be, spirited away.

Images

 Images 

Images

A birthmark constellation on the cheek of my star.

A branding burn between the hitchhiker and her trigger finger.

A single stipple on the hill of a lip.

A flash of lightning, a roar of thunder  and a downpour of rain.

A voice in my ear saying "I made her kill me."

A lightless firecracker that dissipated into the atmosphere.

Purple, pulsating fog rolls in across a ground of glass.

The orb that spins amidst the mountain is reflected in the mirror plain.

The daggers of light reflect in my head behind closed eyes that block the worlds natural spin.

I hear a mixture of Charlie Brown adults and Sound of Music children.

The thoughts in my head are a mixed load of laundry.

I laugh at the wonder of what color they might turn out to be.

I see light in my periphery but darkness to the left of me.

Childrens question marks say, "Make sense of the world for me mommy."

A wiggle of fingers to make sure you can still feel.

A rub of the temple, a scratch on the third eye just to see if its real.

A metronomical clicking in the back of a parched throat,

And a sunburst superimposed on the ceilings red tote.

High pitches, smooth arches, fireflies colliding. Water that smothered long lit candles of exhausted lovers.

How do you spell the sound of a breath blowing out a flame?

6/9/10

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To do away with fancy love.

To do away with the grandiose memory.

To be free of the ache of a phantom limb.

Oh what a day when we see that day.

Love is a suicide pact in which only one lover strikes true.

Both beg for a little death, part naieve part fool.

The excitement of a Rapunzel fairy tale, wondering chances of success where a Capulet and Montague fail.

A dog fight, who first will spin the tale?


A damned prisoner watching the inferno peel the paint from the walls.

Forgotten years lying right beneath the surface.

One in a million to survive and see what truly lies at the foundation.

That's the beam poets embrace.  I'd sooner claim no relation.

To live to see the spark blaze and the tremor quake and not try and remedy the constant ache.

To do away with fancy love.

To do away with the grandiose memory.

To be free of the ache of a phantom limb.

Oh what a day when we see that day.


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