LOST BEHIND

The candles were out

I couldn’t figure it out

what I’d done to be alone in the dark

on a table set for two but hosting one

The candles are out, I still don’t think I deserve to be by myself, like a racehorse running for the finish – euphoric – trained to do this, of course—it can’t remember unseating a jockey, it feels like victory because the horse doesn’t know the aim of the game: don’t pass the post alone.

Now, I’m scrolling back through thoughts and text, with wine and cheese and bread, accompaniments, a wholesome trinity for taking the mind to the affinity of taste buds and off memories and the presently, who scorch me like a rider’s whip if I go near ’em.

All churches smell like this, the smoke from blown-out candle wicks

the same smell that imprints itself to birthday wishes

If it was amber and warm, now it’s crusty and cold,

hard to see through the settled wax that folds my lids, as for being forgot I never did wish

This plain table becometh an altar, for breaking bread and heart, singular

Not worshiping but questioning; belief in man and love and all things nestled with

dreams of a life, the only purpose of a species desperate-to-love,

Why is everyone desperate to leave?

So much so, they don’t even arrive

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BEFALL, BEFELL

Darker nights are coming in

tanned ankles are being hid by simple wool

The full moon sweeps up

reflective eyes and songs of wolves

Wind will carry them, as whistles blow

And shoulders are swallowed by crocheted shawls

The moon is nigh’

As is fire and electric light.

How far have we spun from our oaken dens?

From hunting in mud and sleeping in caves

To our detriment; tools for fracking are increasing

Even if we did replace feathered birds with metal ones to carry us

We’ll never, ever learn to fly, or to keep from our tombs

This is ongoing global warming

everyone taking, adding

shoplifters in every (a)isle, cameras watch blind

Panic drips as will regret like an unfed school of fish

in a tarpaulin pond of an abandoned yard

Farewell promise lands, we sobered-drunk with overuse

We’ll be the aliens the filmmakers and theaters warn us of

We’ll be the good guys who didn’t get there in time

Someone cares, hell do I?

I’m drinking rum at/or/with the Buena Vista Social Club

BOWLINE

I’ve driven men away
Into sinking sands with no Way Out

I’ve driven men away
Into overcrowded metaphors;
Heartbreak Hotel, Single AF, My Bachelor Pad

I’ve driven men without being able to drive
with folded eyes to far off skies

Many a mile and many in bloom
from casual drinks to a hotel room
from a gypsophila wedding aisle
I’ve driven men and continue to

This does and is including you,
You, not the only man I’ve forced away
the only one I hoped would
s t a y

MORNING ROUTINE

Face skinny dips into water
gathered in the sink

Sky jigsaws into leaves
of the purposely-obscured bathroom windows

Damp light begins to wake night
They merge like the pocket-of-air under an accordion skirt or a jellyfish rowing through the sea

Shrinking stars support a toenail clipped moon
soon exhumed by the sky’s deep in thought blue

She hates her job
Until lunchtime
Until home-time

RED SEA

They eroded like sedimentary rocks

He was heavy rain that wore her down

She was crystal forming in place of abrasion

poppy among shrapnel

After seasons of his wicked weathering

She forged a black hole in her brain’s limbic system

Where memories are made, scientists say

She buried him alive in the sink hole of her mind

In it everything they ever did

Every thought, every glimpse

Except for the three kids

A billion seconds later,

She shut the door to his easy shelter

It takes one second of one billion

To find the graphene-hard gristle

a heart of courage

To lose mental torture

and the man responsible

To walk barefoot through the broken glass

To walk barefoot through the broken past

To walk so far, she won’t look back

SEA HOLLY OF LITTLE LONDON

How can one city be another?

I swear that I was there

In this place but feeling there

Miles from the real thing

London commuted into me

The live nostalgia I reeled

angling in, some make believe

That the streets beneath my feet

were southerly

O bell that chimed at quarter past

Was an Elizabethan Royal clock

The passing people passed

With Southern bags from Southern shops

Tourists, tourists

But all the Scousers, no longer Northern

For a moment on Bold Street

I felt the energy of a capital city hosting me

While peeking into eateries

Perhaps it could be Paris that I’m feeling?

Friday night, December 1st

People without plans and those who’d reserved

Students, couples, family, friends

and I’m alone in Liverpool

Ode to be England’s capital