Welcome to the field of dead flowers, the stamen craving that buzzing touch and left waiting. Listen, you can hear the void of wings, the ghosts hopping petal to petal in the springtime snow. It doesn't matter much to you, the gardens we walked in on the year's first blue moon are being overturned for parking. You always hated the unexpected sting of bugs, the way your bright pink shirt attracted dive-bombs when you tried to eat Chinese take-out in the park. Maybe you'll feel better now that ...

I’ve spent too many hours of the day Waiting for the night to slip its silent veil So I may sneak, loud and restless, away Into the comfort of my couch and sail On waves of mindless fantasy, desire Slipped like women’s arms into silky sleeves Of my clothes. I admit the weight of age Has collapsed, like houses in rampant fire, My body. The ambition of my youth leaves And leaves me nothing in its wake. * The drinking starts to numb the scattered thoughts Of what should be done, where I am now, ...

“If the doors of perception were cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite.” --William Blake The living room pulsed in cream shades of lamp light, outline of tigers cast across the walls. The kitchen groaned with appliance, a white noise of the fridge, scurry of dishes piled in the sink, silver hunger of knives. She laid the blindfold silk on the coffee table, ear buds seeded in her glomed fist, waited seconds until she felt the gathered cloud of pain pills, Jack, and mushr...

He was consciously anonymous, staying up in late motel rooms to watch scrambled porn. He ignored the life he led, pausing briefly for the songs that were written for him. Why lie? He waited for himself. His wife was home alone, browsing home renovation catalogues to find the best pool boy package. She loved her husband very much but honestly we all have needs, we all need someone to come with when no one’s coming home. He never went first or last, showed up at the exact time in the exact same...

I: was drowning in Echo's pond and fell in love with man, my high cheek bones burn with the flush solitude of sex. What could be more lovely or reversed than the rippled mirror of my face, pursed lips encroaching with desire equidistant. Here the even dance is Dionysian, pain and pleasure come with the folded sharpness of a staple, a church bell. To you, my chest dangles limply in a cocoon of cotton candy hair, to me, it is a harp strung taut and humming on the fingers of my own best hand. - ...