She tastes like
a sunset, and
smells like peaches...
succulent,
soft.

Moonlight breaks fast on our
windowsill madness, while
passion kisses us in
the white-hot heat.
Her ****** is a
stranger strangling me.

Medusa turns men to stone.
And I'm rock hard
three floors up.

When I explode,
I'm
like a butterfly
floating into the sun.

I put the spike
in and push it a
little; withdraw, and there
it is.
That beautiful
rose bloom flash.
Push the plunger
and I 'm back in Eden.
Naked and no shame.
And in that moment
it's better than
*** and God and Heaven,
and chocolate.
I'm lost in a
storybook blue
sky, and I don't want
to be found.
Nothing matters, but the
sublime substance pumping
through my
veins that make me
immortal.
Icarus flying into
the sun until my
wings melt and I
fall back to earth
and do it all again.

I'm on a Bukowskiesque roll;
pounding them out,
seven or eight a night.
I know it won't last.
It's like a fast.
It's the hunger that
drives you.
And when you're starving,
you eat--then rest,
not today though, I've hit
my stride.
And the night is mine for
the taking.
And the words are mine for
the ******.
And my heart I am staking
on the fact
that
I will stay hungry.

I once had a nurse named Ivy, When I
was at Mercy Hospital D-Toxing.
She wasn't poison, and didn't wind and wrap
around my room giving it that garden green and
alive look.  There was never any doubt that I was
surrounded by four beige walls, and two locked doors
at the end of those long torturous halls that I walked daily.

She was a short squat thing with big eyes and large
plump thumbs.  The name Ivy didn't fit her.
My daughter's middle name is Ivy.  She is breathtaking--all
pumpkin pie colored hair.  She has the temperament of
autumn too, just like her mama.  It feels like a stomach
virus to be apart from her.  She twists and tightens around
my broken heart... We **** sure picked the right
name for her

He wants to shake the moss off his
back and leave the tadpoles behind.
They remind him of his misspent youth, and
wasted spring.  The blackbird sings of
blue skies, far off lands,
and the bullfrog dreams of flying.

Angels with broken wings,
frostbitten dreams,
morphine nights,
and gangrene schemes.
She had that broken glass sadness.
The kind that gets worse with
every slammed door and every
lazy moon mad night.
The light in her eyes was dim,
like a candle in the fog, or like
a frog that dreams of flying, but
wakes up to the same old pond,
day after degrading day.
God, every time I see her, I want to
take her home and give her a bath,
feed her strawberries and rub her feet.
I want to free her from the rain slick
suffering she's stuck in, wash away the
stench of the lonely diesel strangers,
but I can't save her, hell I can't even
save myself.  So I *** her a Midnight Special,
and light it for her, with a brief sulfuric blaze
of glory bereft of any lasting light...
walk away...Jack-O-Lantern grin
into the lonesome neon night.

I love it while
it sleeps--smiling,
wet with tea;
dreaming dormouse dreams.
I tickle its downy fur.
And it laughs and
moans softly.
I want to put it in
my pocket and
carry it everywhere;
take it out on
lonely autumn nights and
play with her until
she's exhausted,
relaxed and rested,
content and lost in my
fingers and in my heart.

I want to swim to heaven,
because this city has an infection.
No injection will **** this disease,
this treachery, this brutality;
So I'm going to swim to heaven,
back float--take my time, my rhyme,
will be the deep blue trip
to heaven.

The dark dance calls softly,
like Night Shade or Oleander.
Just a little taste...
Just one more slow waltz...
I can smell her
wet orchid while I sleep.
She moves languidly through
my dreams, possesses me at dawn
with lambent steps.
The love is violent, like a bullfight.
It's sweet and treacherous, ferocious.
Fatal for one of us;
and she's been gored.

Life has reached its apex, when the major goal is to not freeze to
death on the Iowa City streets in February.  Finally I went to the back
of the ice-box, and there beside the hamburger and lamb chops and the Atlantic Cod, there was your frozen heart.
I'm speaking metaphorically of course, but finally, I see it for what it is; dead and icy cold.  You can't hurt me anymore.  Finally sweet apathy.
So whenever sentimentality comes whispering at the door or through the open window--lilacs in bloom.  I'll just open the icebox and glance at your dead frostbitten heart.  Maybe you were brutal and
cruel intentionally, or you could never overcome the blizzard
people that surrounded your formative years.
Either way, It feels good to finally see your soul and not
give a ****.

There goes Vincent with
his jagged sky, and
ragged beard.
His cobalt blue are
stained with the glue that should
hold us all together,
but it doesn't.
His sunflowers are lost
on humanity.
When we can't hold
on to what we pretend to love,
we **** it...
Usually in small
treacherous ways,
like apathy or
arrogance.

I lost my best friend today.
She didn't die, well not physically.
She went away mentally and emotionally.
It's a forever vacation, she didn't even pack.
I can see it in her dead eyes,
here it in her rabid voice.
It makes my soul sick, but she's
not taking me down with her.
I stand on the placid shore and
wave good-bye, as she sails
for insanity

I can taste the
lavender sky,
smell the pink,
squeeze the orange,
and drink it like a
Screwdriver.
My angel with
jaded wings;
My heart sings when
I hold her.
I can touch the
burnt umber of her
hair.
And I'm in
Wonderland, because she's
my Alice, and I want to bring
her safely home.

Debauched nights, destruction waning,
There is a twisted pull to the underbelly.
Chaos is ****, like silk stockings and
Bonnie an Clyde.
I can smell it a mile away,
like a dog in heat.
It lures me from the
safety of my sweet calm life.
There is an existence beyond
the bridge, but it's boring and soulless.
I want to ****** the light, and
the routine.  Dredge the marrow
from the bone

Your love is like a frozen bird, a
feathered stone falling from the sky.
I wish it didn't die.
It should be flying, and soring, and
healing, against the warm blaze of
the afternoon sun--weaving and
diving through the coolness of the clouds.
But it's gone, and all it can do is
plummet and take a few more
birds out, on its way down.

Down I go into the gray and brown.
I hit the sides, like being in a cradle that is
rocked too fast.  It's an abrupt catastrophe.
I didn't see this one coming; but I felt it, like
the slight rumble of an earthquake, or like the
false dawn, before the real light yawns, and
opens the sickly day.
It's just another ending, dapple and down.