Thoughts of Tucson
in a small room.
A freezing rain begins to fall.
I placed my trust in divinity to act
and fell from
the face of the world.
There is a mysterious art to it.
The room has a window
and a door
and the walls are a light brownish green.
I feel like I could live here.
There are names on a list
and ice now on the glass.
Unbalanced I start a fire
in the propane heater
and begin to feel warm and loose
At the sink I pour another vodka tonic.
The names on the list are blurry
and I wonder who wrote them.
What they are for.
What it means.
The radio station plays early twentieth century
and I don’t have the heart to change it.
I have two weeks…
Little birds shelter in the branches outside.
It is nice in the country when the
farm fields are empty.
Ribbons tied to a school’s chain link fence
flutter and whip in the wind.
I think of Tucson
and a golden sun
into the desert
as I set a flame to a corner of the list
and watch as the fire burns it to ash in a bowl.
I like to think I freed them
those whose names were on the list
but the acrid smell
left in the air speaks
Change the chemical composition of our
where the last of this season’s snow withers still
in the recesses and shadowed places
the sun light
Holding my palm
to a prophet (a designer of fate)
I find comfort in the remedies she offers.
It’s a Tuesday which dematerializes before us
in such a flurry of philosophizing that our lips turn blue
Acceptance has been passed down to us
so let us be gloomy and in love and utterly
Strangers at the brook suspecting firearms are being sold
out of the city’s service equipment shed off Mill Street
let us pass without
The market is abandoned.
The air blushes pink with the flavor of cinnamon as
I seek an escape from this wearisome close
of winter’s retreat with a prophet who denies her actions on the solstice.
But the regrets we share from yesterday’s follies transform into a clarity
that designs within us
a passing reprieve.
At the base of the stairs she gives me
and closes my hand about it.
I grow fearful of the eyes behind the white windows.
The sound of the cars passing
on the street
make me want to answer her unasked question but find I
don’t have any words.
There is something believable about you
she tells me
but now I can only wait for you
to wake up.
Mistrial in the cool afternoon
Aspirations turn bitter
and bloom to the music of two voices
Joined together by a single note
into a shallow form of beauty.
The streets run on the hope
of a memory.
The clocks change the hour.
The closing elevator doors sound like
a girl weeping
and remind of the county fair
we went to years ago
The only thing I now still see clearly
is the color
It was always only ever a marginal trust
with the devil
in our pursuit for equality and want.
I can still smell the air
crisp and fresh
coming off the asphalt and the grass
as we huddle in the overgrowth
where the cascading lights
reflect vividly vacant
in Teddy’s soft
“I only believe in endings so pure,”
as the blood from the tips of her fingers
is streaked through her blond hair
and the woman’s laugh
from across the darkening creek
comes gently creeping over the water
“that the nostalgic remains of our lives
become the tears
to open the gates of hell.”
I am haunted
by those mystics
who climb from their crypts
misted and speaking a ruined
A vessel is born as the elevator doors open
onto a world of decayed salvation
and exiting I leave behind the girl crying
hidden in its mirrored walls.
“They will always be, you know.”
I find my spoon in my desk drawer for my instant coffee.
A red light informs me there are messages on my phone.
“There is no word for it.”