string lights on a skylight backdrop

1994

If you need me, I’ll be right here,
right where you left me,
in ’94.

Familiar voices within,
somewhere stuffy, smokey, dim,
splashed with string lights,
right, they blink pink and red and white.

Incense and oil,
your breath in toil, the scream,
my ears ring, and rings cling,
and my lips shudder right.

Love … I’m right here,
right where you left me,
in ’94.

Dewy face, hyperspace,
curls and a joker’s grin,
the palms, throat, and thighs,
trapped right in the well of those eyes.

Melted ice and sweat,
the pulse and beat a threat,
such frenzy and heat,
and secrets to keep, but we’re right.

Alright.

Right here,
right where you left us,
in ’94.

The Illusionist

Black strands and white hands.
Moments drip, raindrops in time,
and stars glimmer for orphans, charting a course for home.

Exhalations in the drab and lonely night,
frosted breath, solitary, such secrets,
revealing cold mists, admissions, from summer to fall to winter again.

So long.
The truth as it ticks and burns and waits,
and is withheld.
Such a fleeting thing,
devoured by the maelstrom.

So sad.
A lined brow, a river’s etching by the eyes,
but blue, blue, blue — lamenting lost light.
Something revealed, seen, known and cherished.

He is me,
even in this heat with cold lips,
the delicate tendrils of my heart stuccoed to the illusion.
Black strands and white hands.

The Engineer

White and soft — so, so white.
The badge, the tag, the sensation of bleach and clean, and iron, concrete, and walls.
Invisible fate; metal maw and melting bones, the frantic panic of the chest.
Smoke, the roaring beast,
squealing steam, and the rattle of throats; buried ghosts.

Red and burning — so, so red.
The hand, the scalding palm, the sensation of seat and fear, sky, world, and centuries.
Charged ingot, betrayer and thief, the frightful hurry of the poisoned pulse.
Breathe, the eyes,
pulling color, the fear of that greater dark,

Dashed heart, and the robbery of time.
Panting breath, sickened touch, and perpetual, dangerous love.

The Christian

Golden neck, jeweled flash,
such dirt and religious plots.
The sweeping sky, look loft and about,
blue and feathered white.
Yours, the knitted brow, kissed by cool green stalks,
and I, floating as in the doldrums, the endless spin of nowhere.
Water laps, but not a bird cries, or a step makes.

They’re coming, love, they’re coming.

Run the black mud and rattle the heart,
a kiss in the dark.
Golden loop, dusty curls,
steel and swords and death.

The Chamberlain

Oil slick and incense putrid;
cassock folds flutter aside the heel.
Blue wanting lingers in frigid mist,
and snow, soft secrets, muted confessions.
Throat, pull the white and to the wind,
lips touch, brush, and push.
Hearts, blushing heat, and palms,
spying stars, the world’s eyes.
Spiteful ritual, crumbling ruins, cracking paint.
Careless moments conjured by glances and smiles and trepidatious fingers.
Summon God, Father, if you must;
prayer lost to begging — unraveling devotion.