No Longer Dreaming

I've never feared the sea;
not even as it bubbled and
swirled around
my little island.


I've always seen far away lights-
signs of other islands or
reminders of ships that have past
or have yet to.


I watch the fish as they shimmer and 
dance in the cloudy water.
They seem fascinated with the delicate 
far off 
lights.


But I know better.


For I fear the lights more than the sea.

Walking through a darkened house

There is a moment in sleeplessness that I find myself;

when the flirting drowsiness has faded and the wretched, twitching mania has 

subsided.

I stop feeling my own fingernails clawing over me,
I stop looking for the next sign of worth,

I stop cursing the birds flight and the dogs life of ease

and I stop dreading the silence of each darkened room

as I creak among the floorboards.

When I've stopped trying to find-

I am found.

I am found in the dark with eyes closed;

records spread out- carefully chosen albums of regret and triumph;
but none on the player.

I am found among

piles of notes straightened into yellow towers,
all of them scribbled with great intent

though, none worth remembering.

I'm found when the rain taps a paltry 'hello' at 5 am,
hovers momentarily over this particular address,
then washes away a moment later,
unamused.

I am found when, all at once, I feel the warmth of words in my heart, and they
pour like blood through my outstretched fingers
and pool together in front of me.

I am found when my hands stop shaking and my

eyes begin to see white dots bobbing in the haze of a mew morning.

I am found when I think of you.

I am found for that one moment

when I forget myself.

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Smoking is Sexy

Lucky Strike promises.


Eternal health.


Masculine appeal.


Cowboys.


Motorcycles
and detectives in black and white.


Blues bars- formerly 
choking with atmosphere.
Cigarettes stuck in the strings of
Gibson
Gretch and
Fender.


Embers glowing in
Dylan's shades


Then there was disease-
black lungs in elementary school jars and
holes in the throats of 
ancient puffers speaking with
robotic tongues.


Denial 
Repression
what should be believed
what is inside them?
what is inside of us?
we know
we don't care
we should.


Bogart and Bacall
sharp eyes through hazy air


HS Thompson, pulling through a filter.


Dean eternal,
McQueen eternal-


cool.




Where is masculinity?
What is it?
Where has it gone?


Where is my pipe?
my violin?
my revolver?
or my faithful horse?


Gone they say;
consumed in 
a grey cloud of cancer.


Bitter betterment
at the hands of
lollypops
toothpicks
medicated patches
and electronic
handheld
flavored
fog machines.


Habits die hard
cultures die hard


Nothing for coffee but pastry
nothing for behind the wheel but the radio
nothing to make the throat singe after sex
nothing to complete the image.


ghost limbs
reaching out of celluloid
reaching out of every smoking area
reaching out of the back of your mind


ghost limbs of
identity