drifting across the page

unilluminated and fading

simple vegetables from a begging bowl

leftovers from a peasant’s pot of magic  beans

and a wino’s empty bottles

bring to a boil

simmer

and strain to see what it means

strumming the guitar, eating figs, and renaming the constellations

but mostly wishing i had something to do

she reels her catch into a dark alley

she is a love spell

a siren whose presence vibrates with her song

the only light casts a red glow on her skin

beneath a diaphanous dress,  barely a veil

nipples dark and razor erect

she stands, legs slightly parted in the sanguinary glare

grinning

he is drawn closer, unavoidably

he tries to hold firm, control the instinct rising in him

she beckons with a  seductive finger, pornographic

and a voice in his head, not from his ears whispering ”come to me”

he falls weakly into her fevered embrace

met with lips, boiling wetness

she presses harder against his mouth, the firmness of her body bearing into him,

her pussy moist and searing upon his thigh

his cock stiffens as the swelter increases

and his body becomes the conduit for a wildfire

borne by her kiss and cunt

flowing with a dark carnal passion

sweeping him away

his mind fills with images. nightmares and long forgotten terrors

among them, her face

eyes rolling, moaning, nearly coming

as the darkness, thick and oozing, mixes with the pain in his mind

she bites deeply into his flesh

and he is afraid that he too is coming

going

the leatherwing blackness of hell pours down upon his soulbody

his shell falls limply in the alley

as the ecstasy of the succubus reaches it climax.

samsara is a horrible little magic show

and you have the best seat in the house

and whats worse

you’ve got tickets for the next performance

I told the boys all I loved them and Joey told me he that he loved me too. I told Joey that I didn’t love him like that and no one laughed, because we all knew Joey did love me like that.

lingers over china hat

all things pass in time

bats

wasps

and flies

but never a variable dancer

through empty city streets shimmering with late afternoon heat

skirting the edge of Crown Hill, the sprawling necropolis just outside the heart of the city.

The flags were lifeless unflapping droops around small tombstones

flowers wilting and dying in the swelter

no one weeping or remembering

(nothing)

Red tie shouting conservative on the radio

the same tired jingoistic vitriol

kill the sons, rape the mothers.

The road T’s at 38th street

a bus stop underneath the gate of the traffic light

behind is a wrought iron fence

and beyond that the endless expanse of the shade and solitude of the cemetery.

There, sitting on his duffel

a middle aged soldier, gray at the temples

face downcast, peeling an orange

(unreadable)

The radio host speaks of righteousness and infallibility.

i stare at the dial as  if into his eyes

but see only the time on the clock

and i wonder if the old vet know that it is well past five

and the city buses are running the holiday routes today

and that the last one is long past

i think to turn around and tell him

(offer him a ride)

But it is well past five and i am late for work

so instead i watch him dwindle and disappear into my rear view mirror

and go about my day