do you ever get the feeling that all is lost, that we're back pedaling
trying to reclaim it?
we had an art life.
today we don’t want to own it.
we don’t want to own up to the fact that
we live to die,
die to live
each and every endangered moment.
ex-pats of indentured servitude
living life on the margins
we, my love, are the
all that is you
down the road of wreckless dreams
running in place
after me, after you
running so hard i cannot see
the blinding light
blazing like flames
burn in hell with me
the pounding, angry hell of wretched passion
a hell called love
a hell we cannot harness
surrender, i hear you think
surrender, i repeat
and in the repetition
i release the fear, the threat.
i look into those hazel eyes
the light ablaze
when you dynamite my hardened exterior
exposing all of me.
i want not
do not want what you give me
to think about
there are no consequences
the white, the black, the pattern
of love, the colors...
why do we forget?
the soprano down on 12th street unleashed the firestorm.
she sucked all the oxygen from the room
filled with despondent artists seeking redemption
from self denigration, despair, uncertainty and chaos.
you must look into her eyes, hold that gaze
and do not waver.
the turbulence unbearable,
the intensity, the burn
of years confessing all but love
that sat in an unopened box
waiting to be claimed.
we were fearless companions in the name of art,
excess and social justice.
oh but for the night of splendor when we touched
the hunger fathoms deep as if we would die of starvation
when our plates were full
the curtain of torrential rain
as the wind shear strengthened
fire whirls exploding, darting about
compensation for obliteration
of all things known and unknown.
do not look back, do not turn around to see the carnage.
that is what we told ourselves
because it seemed we could not bear
the loss as we watched the dissolution,
as if we would lose everything,
lose it all.
our lives, our loves, our freedom, our history
as confidantes in a reckless and morally incomprehensible world.
we watched as it all burned up
among the charred remains
Tracing the lines to Orly Airport
baggage gone missing
$200 in my pocket,
two months across the lonely continent.
So tell me, where does the time go?
Thirty years, another opus
stripped bare of non-essentials.
There are no fictions
only roads that lead to impasse.
Or the rotary so notorious
it circles endlessly,
the mind unyielding.
I am the architect of my dreams
I am floating, iridescent on the necklace
of the sea, the horizon
wavers in the distance
I am fearless
at the center
They never tunnel to the surface
and if they do, you don’t hear them grunt
and slither back through the soil drum
Can’t get rid of the bloody things
wrecking fantasies about art and risk,
and real intention.
There's nowhere to go
when you realize you've already been there before.
happiness is superlative
an exaggeration of a far superior state of mind
presence among the timeless
spontaneous remission of future past
in the now that is always preferential
if not presidential
with or without the paper money
I stand before you defenseless
in an empty room some place I’ve never been
before. Your lips are moving but I hear
the rush of sang chaud.
Hidden thoughts ricochet, the ones you had
yesterday in the narcotic haze of twilight. There
is no tomorrow tomorrow but the moment
is slipping away. That is all we’ve got, you remind me,
all we ever had. You disarm the silence.
short was the distance between bedroom and bath
long the hand that struck me
confined to porcelain
the water lukewarm turning rose
a razor of light cutting a swath
through the wavy glass pane
cracked from another episode of rage and redemption
i did not beg for release
ass out, all attitude, a tongue of shank
my fortress, relentless the syllabic barrage
i would have asked for more but
the click of heels on the black and white tiles