sparrow

i've seen angels smile as
scabby junkies shared a
blood stained needle
and huddled close, seeking heaven.
watched and written pretty words
as devils danced in delight
outside a hospital room while
sacred words in mumbled monotone
sped a soul to heaven.
saw christ in a drunk's
sloppy grin and found buddha's calm
in the bottom of a shot glass.
it's been written that
god sees the sparrow fall,
but does he look for me?

hey god, do you look and
smile at me,
trying to find heaven.




patterns

your tongue is sharp
honed to a fine edge.
the things you say
slash me at times, wounds
deep and gaping.
the bones of my soul show
white under red.
but most often the words are
tiny nicks,
scratches here and there,
patterns,
tattooed on my self esteem.
tribal scarifications
brand me yours.


pool night 1996

i sit quiet in the corner
just a bit of darker shadow
turned sideways from the light
coming yellow down on the
one decent pool table.

watching you laugh, drinking
with the rest. you stroke your stick
i can see you like the feel
of it's smooth wood
familiar to your fingers.

me, i'm thinking
i wanna be the pool table, soft
worn felt you're leaning across,
want you to be that stick.

the shot, as you stroke.
wanna be the corner pocket.

i swallow hard when you
tilt your coors up and
drink deep. i need to be your thirst.

shifting my weight a bit on my seat
i think about you
being that bar stool.

i would be the smokey air that
you suck in before the click of
the balls hitting. hell
i'd settle for being the cigarette
between your lips.

2 a.m. by the grimy neon clock
behind the bar, another pool night done.
you won a few of your games, i
haven't played at all.





after reading again, bukowski

his love, was i think
that dog from hell.
i think that.
times he fucked lovelessly
times he fucked loveless
times he loved
fuckless.
sometimes i think he wasn't
but most times i think he was
bukowski.



a date with neruda

after work on a friday, a
quick stop at a bookshop down the street
unlocking the backdoor, coat tossed at the
kitchen table, misses
who cares, as i
hurry up the narrow stars to
my small bedroom, turning on the
lights
as i head for the bed and
the intimacy of pillows and mattress,
the book is hard in my hands and the pleasures i
seek, fullfilled as i read,
me and pablo, between the sheets.



wicked fingers

bruised sky
swells around
the rising moon
backlight
for sharpened branches,
dark wicked fingers
point toward heaven
accusing god.



jewel box

each stolen moment, every
glance with head tilted so
no one notices
a brush of hand against hand
as we pass, warm
skin to skin
quick opened mouth kisses
wet and too few
strung together
i wear as jewelry
more costly that pearls.