I think it was the meth
    
    that came between us
    I think this was why
    she shaved her head that time
    and why another later day
    I came home to an empty house
    why I became committed after
    that to sleeping with as many
    people as possible
    about whom I cared
    not at all and why
    my sinuses became
    battlegrounds my arms
    began to cramp when reaching
    for things I did not want
    and how my heart slowed down
    when I gave this up at last
    as there are never enough lines
    never a point that does not
    jab its way in never
    roses when roses are needed
    though sitting in a bar alone
    at 2 am someone always
    comes in and shoves some
    under your nose
    though I do know when this
    happens the solution is
    to buy one
    put it in your beer bottle
    carry it home
    after last call
    its head down hanging
    there from an
    unnoticed thorn





    tiramisu
   
    light on the tongue
    and I think of you
    that red dress
    the thin strap falling
    candlelight and the last
    of the wine after
    clams linguine
    the tiramisu so sweet
    with a hint of bitter
    chocolate of espresso
    too rich so we split it
    the candle flickering
    moving shadows
    each waiting for
    the other to take
    the last bite







    hear you in my sleep
    

    and the night sounds
    better though it is not you
    and I roll over and there is
    the comfort of a warm and
    familiar thigh but it is
    not you and your song
    plays through me like rain on
    the car roof as windshield
    diamonds sing to the steamed
    glass your breath in the night
    and the sound is here but it
    is not you and deeper into
    the dream you appear just out
    of reach and I run to you but
    I cannot close the distance
    like running in water your
    song like running water light
    through trees above a grassy
    bank in summer heat my
    clothing under my head your
    song will not leave me but
    I need the warmth of you
    the smell the taste of you
    here with me here inside I
    will always






 another way of singing
 

 I have been here only days
 the lifespan of the tulips

 though absent a hard freeze
 their bulbs will bring them
 back again next spring

 of course we never know
 what will intervene

 I have sung quietly
 in a voice that does not echo
 from these soft walls

 your orgasms like
 peach blossoms falling








 value
 

 not the
 summer boardwalk
 forest of
 unattainable young
 thighs

 but the hot night
 memory of slipping
 in sweat sliding
 off you
 laughing

 the one in the hammock
 out the 2nd floor
 window naked
 her head shaved
 laughing up

 the 30 thousand
 dollar sport
 utility vehicles
 nothing
 in comparison

 the cruises
 the single malts
 the thousand dollar
 suits the gold rolex
 nothing

 that one touch
 of her lips
 that was all there
 was recorded here
 forever

 the small hand
 tugging my beard
 back down
 your voice in
 morning darkness

 no celluloid princess
 no walking barbie
 no inflated temple
 love goddess no
 vestal version

 the one with
 the slender fingers
 that wrapped me
 in breath-faint
 touch

 the streetlamp
 light sliced apart
 by half-open blinds
 spread on the
 bread of you

 the best things
 are free
 whether you can
 get them
 or not






    love & war
    
    she cuts my head
    out of the photographs
    she likes best
    with the small scissors
    she always reserved
    for trimming
    her hair

    my son collects them
    from the floor
    and the trash
    puts them away
    in a coffee can
    with his toy
    soldiers




Scratch one abattoir


Bored, I sit on the dock capturing insects in a tin can,
skate bugs off the water, pouring them on the rough planks.
Out of their element, they move slowly, drunkenly.

I coax the bugs to a space between boards,
knitted by a large coarse spun web,
occupied by two tiny white unmoving spiders.

The trap is large, but poor, and the skate bugs
fall through, hit the water to vanish to some safer section
of their proper element.

One wanders at last to the edge and beyond,
drops and sticks struggling, and a huge grey spider
races from somewhere below.

Spider pounces, covering, squeezing;
little legs hang out, trembling,
curling, still.

Ashore for dry leaves, I return to drop them
into the web: I light one, and bring it all down
in seconds.

I'm no vegetarian, but nothing I do gives me that
spider feeling, well not often, and Christ those little legs
could have been anybody.

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