February through August

February through August I listened to the clock watch serenade.
The tick, the tock, the sinking of Titanic all came and went again.

I would understand better, I thought, if forgetting happened to forget me.

I love your eyes that mimic freshly baked croissants from the patisserie
or the golden brown yam and goat cheese empanadas I'm craving now.

They're beautiful, the quiet giggle under your breath, and delightfully mischievous,
smirking around the outer edges for that perfect and decisive curve up
where the brush lifts off satisfied "voilà!"

voilà!

This was Chicago. I'm in my salt crusted black jeans behind you.
Walking up the stairs, your thighs are the cruelest set I'd ever seen.





Let us be anything but reasonable I

6" x 8"

Beating a dead horse with paint brush

Such a good little boy.

Oh, wait.







The boy that warms your mother's (fucking) heart, 1992

Sunday afternoon

I could watch internet porn for hours
or go do something productive.
But what's more productive than sex?
Even if it's other people having it.

I'm sending you signals.
But they keep bouncing off roof tops,
and falling to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
There's no life down there.
What good are words?

You're still pretty.
But not as beautiful
as when I had a chance.





It was hopeless, from the very beginning