When that sky at the end of Sunset Drive comes alive,
shooting color after eye-pleasing color,
hues of blue,
pastels plastered,
in great, wide open air taking takable space,
waiting, sitting, for someone, for something, anything
to come and cover its eye-trembling perfection,
looking like divine intervention, it's ascension
into heaven hovering over luminous treasure bursting over mountains,
glowing, making glowering, furrowed eyebrows
enlightened, sight-stopping life, stopping hate,
stopping for five fast-dying moments all things making,
all things doing, ensuing a resume of life
after the sunset.
Last night I dreamed of Bill Clinton,
His gold watch glimmering opulence. He
preached free love, free sex,
united as something disconnected.
And I remember thinking
"What a brilliant man!"
He was speaking in front of me
And I, from the crowd, spotted his eyes
blazing with genius and I smiled.
Then he saw me,
he walked to me,
handed me paper and told me,
"Write!"
I smiled sweetly at his face and he said again:
"Write, writer! Write of sunsets,
stone bridges, liquidy ice cream
running down your chin and your mother,
young again, wiping it off.
You are a writer."
The sea is pure candy
skin sucking in
the perfect moment of light.
Then you drive by,
A cherry Jetta, pimped out and winged
as if, if I get in your car, we could fly.
I'm charged with solar power
And sparking electric
So teaming with energy, I get in
hoping that if I do, we might really fly.
Inside, we touch faces,
Inside, contained and private,
we prepare ourselves for the flight.
Then you drive.
You drive me over mountains, over lakes, over clouds and beyond.
----To A.
When I look back
there's flowers, scented.
Next to me, you're a shadow,
Draped in sins like Jesus,
your jaw and shoulders hang low.
Ahead of me,
your eyes don't even show pain.
