wooden box

He started listening to Dexter Gordon after he'd seen him a movie during a lonely time in his life. He didn't remember the name of the movie, but he was affected by Gordon's utter elegant cool. Regal cool, with his deep, pained voice of life. He wished he'd been black and raw cool like Dexter. He wished he could caress the emotions out like him. He bought a harmonica because he could not afford a saxophone and would play it in the bathroom when no one was home. It worked, for a time.
Now in his fifties, he was used to being alone. He no longer felt lonely. He'd surrendered those emotions or they'd merely just drifted away. He existed, that was enough at this point. He played the harmonica twice a year on significant dates, then returned the instrument to a wooden box he'd inherited from his father. His father had kept tie pins, cuff links and old coins in the box. He had kept them for no particular reason, though he had no reason to ever wear them, not did he have a shirt with cuffs even if he did.

dance with penumbra

in the slaughterhouse
all faces look the same

We lay together, the putrid flavor of your liquid a remnant on my langauge,

Our passion spent, its stench hangs in the room, sweetened slightly by the fresh March breeze that seeps through the open window, brushes back the burgundy curtains, softly, gently, like the hands of the lover i was moments before. Smoking cigarettes i the vacuum, words that got us here now stick in the throat and must be spit out, expurgated--sputtering, the words echo in the hollow, betray our legends.

We pull at the damp sheets, cover portions of our pink, pimpled flesh--so suddenly naked, weathering the vast, terrifying minutes between desire and sleep.

purgaotory words

A full June moon crests the trees outside the window. Sucking on cigarettes and slurping rye whisky mixed with coke -with ice- which is significant as the music the ice makes as it rattles around inside the glass is a music that is magnificent within my spirit, harkens ancient echoes of joyous, boisterous drunken days, when insouciance flowed with fiery frenzy and females flitted in and out of my arms.
Distant thunder threatens the full moon, its reverberating wind stirring the trees, blowing back the worn, faded curtains on the window. Sitting, smoking, drinking and writing--i chant a vanquished, ancient chant, laud bone and sinew, cartilage and restless lust with the language of desire and the solace of surrender, emit hoary odor of dried blood, remnant passion, stark embrace and edible stain.
Purgatory words echoing in the murky chamber of memory.
Nights pass like this--murky with rye whisky and cigarettes. Nothing particularly wrong with that. There are some implications, healthwise, I suppose--so be it. Certain things you trade for a notion of balance

true love

She has had four or five, maybe six one true loves since the time she determined that i was not her one true love and that my services would no longer be required. Love isn't what it used to be,

because

Because it is wild,frenzied and illuminous. Because is spits sweet venom and sweats holy water and wine. Because it dances furious in the omniscient panic, leaping and bounding in spastic glory, quivering and shivering ecstatic. Because it hurtles unbounded, arms splayed across the horizon. Because it exults and tumults, expurgates and proliferates, desires and divines and hollers great joyous ancient chants into the ethereal flame of night. Because it is immaculate energy, pure, restless, ignoble. Because it embraces with an omnipotent lovers embrace, convulsing and fervent, digging into flesh with broken passion nails. Because it propagates, satiates, and mystifies. Because it propels true rumors, and thrives fully, completely in the joyous wonder in an infants eyes.