Mad Moon Over Mehringdamm

It was the whisper behind your words,
after being scared
shitless
by the description of the eight of cups,
that triggered
the vanishing
of old casts,
dead skin, rotten
leftovers, dragged
for too long. Suddenly,
the cocaine
clown, a once haunting tickler
of the nose,
became a sad, painted man,
unable to even walk
down the street, without stumbling,
in his oversized shoes, unable
to navigate the streets
of Berlin. And,
with a whoosh, tears
in my eyes, relief
in my heart, I knew

the truth,
I buried my mouth
in the side of your neck,
in the drapes
of your red hair,
suddenly able to let go
of fiendish control,
to accept the gifts to come,
to be able to see the fiery daughter
of wands before me, a conduit,
channeling, transcending, conjuring
spirits of the past, from the two
hundred year life
of this Wohnzimmer, beyond
the four of us, without fear, without time,
as red pentacles grew
from the coffee table like red roses
on vines.

A Long Time Vacant Chamber of the Heart, Breaking

This feeling

when you lose someone

you never knew,

this feeling of loss,

of losing something

you never had.

The ghosts of memories

that could have been.

This feeling

when you want

to call your mom

but you don't know why.

This sudden obligation.

This great mystery

raveling and unraveling.

These small triggers

in life, utterly affecting,

that move you

in ways unexpected.

These shifts of sorrow

in the heart,

the dust blowing

through an empty room,

the shards

of a childhood

never lived,

on the floor,

next to the ghost of a father

deceased.

Are these just explanations

of the unexplainable?

The heart that has no bones

will not break. 

Night With Luna

I’ve never hugged someone
so tightly and gently as we fall
asleep together.

I drove her over the edge, so much
so that she threw up
as if just after riding
a roller coaster.

I bound her ankles to her thighs,
her hands behind her back,
and blindfolded her on the bed.

She came again and again
as I teased her with the vibrator,
licked her, fucked her, played
with her clit. And she fell

asleep in my arms, wonderfully
asleep, so easy, melting
into our own private dream.

We are lost to the stars.
We have become them,
we have left Earth,
we have become part
of the celestial weave,
the galactic mesh.

I awake with such desire, entangled
in passion, in the arms of this beautiful soul,
with love nearby, waiting for us
to be ready for it to land.

A Little Moon on my Shoulder

She lays her head back onto my shoulder and I pull her
long, black, curly hair back until I kiss her, and then we are lost
in time by a lake, both of us here and nowhere else entirely. 

She places my hand on her breast plate, holds it
there, and my heart cracks, veins of lightning
coursing over its surface, dying to escape, but I am too shy
right then and its too soon to tell her.

Instead, we climb into a hammock, dangling from a tree
over the water, and melt together into a world
previously unknown- glimpses of blue sky, turquoise and navy satin
parachute cloth walls, soft skin, wet kisses, hands exploring,
teasing, moaning- we are inside

an ethereal, pleasure dipped haven, as we rock slowly
back and forth, an excited cocoon, transforming
into something new, together at the edge of Müggelsee.

Jeff Buckley

I’m listening to a dead man sing

and although his voice is hauntingly

beautiful, as he sketches nightmares

by the sea, I am not scared

of this bellowing ghost

but intoxicated

by his licks

strapped

with the loss of such a doomed

angel guitarist,

mysteriously disappeared

in 90s tide popularity.

How it is to Exist in this World for to Bring Music and Song unto the Earth

In the great span of history, music

spun round the globe aflutter

in the atmosphere for ears

to be tickled only for a brief

period of time

and it is to this interval unto

which I have dedicated

each Wednesday night of practicing

the fiddle, if not for the pleasure

of others but for the pleasure

of myself

so that when the question of what it is to play

music is asked, it will not be unanswered

by the enormous swath of time

so devout in painting vocational essence

with existential self-doubt.

Last Night I Dreamt of You in Denmark

as you exited
onto the stage, dressed
in your best Italian
garb, your slender body
expressing traditional mating rituals
from centuries before
your time.

I watched without
being able to touch you.
I watched your beauty, the way
your chesnutt hair pinned
over your head didn't move
as your arms curled and your fingers
squeezed the air, the way your breasts lifted
and settled
as your feet fluttered and shuffled
to the music.

I watched and I waited
and I clapped. I wanted to catch you
like a butterfly.