Writers, Artists, and Poets of Fiction, Non-Fiction, and Poetry

I.

The door is ajar
with an amber light inside.
There is a white gardenia in my hair
and I am waiting
for your mouth
to spell me out.

Like diamond dust the snow
fell that night I held
your face in my hands
and told you
sin isn't rare anymore.

Why I dreamed there was a serpent
in my heart
coiled in the shape
of your initials.

Martyr, do you dream of what if
while watching the girls
conspire about love on the corner?

You are caught up in symbols
Of obscenity.

But Sweetheart, if you were a bird
black & swift above the horizon
you would know how small
the heart of a stranger
can be.

II.

Like every hell,
extinguishing sin.
My mouth pale with devotion,
and silent with burning.

What will the angels,
blonde and pouting,
let us take from this union,
unholy as the ecstastic=s dream?
It is a
dark and unfamiliar thing,
this flawed majesty
of ecstasy and suffering.

Then, as it always was,
the shine of wheat fields
in November
outside
the motel room window,
and every morning the bossa nova
of the 6:45 train.

III.

Above every storm
there is only blue.

Sacred lines of ancient scriptures
circle you.
You flinch at the altar,
Star-gazer,
where the Virgin=s lilies
are in bloom,
spotted red, spread wide
with nectar gleaming.

You think of forbidden
4 letter words:
Love. Lust. Fuck.

      Believe.

Here is faith
beneath my breast,
and here are the wayward angels
moving a flesh & arrow crown
around my head.

Later, in the temple,
incense, wine and doves
in a mesh of chaos,
and through the stained glass,
exotic orphan,
the timber of your voice
pressing for truth.

IV.

          As a child you grew
           Rare and wild-
          One cheek toward the sun,
           The other shadowed like a moon flower
              At a lunar eclipse.

Now it is only your voice
and the bells of Saint Matthews,
and the gospel after midnight.
Now it is the coming of Autumn
and the slow declension
of a dying light.

Now it is only
the silence of thee,
the prayer of an old man,
the tattooed crucifix
and the quarter moon
hanging like a scythe
in the trees.

Now it is only your voice
that returns to me.

V.

The city outside
shakes down with decaying leaves
and the tired horses
pushing through Central Park pause,
and all the suspects
with sharp hidden charms
wait for the alleyways to fade
and grow dark.

      And later, she will prick you
       With a knife
         Just to see
            If you can bleed.

VI.

Leaves of desire
cover the windows,
color of fire and sky.

And in the dream
I awaken at the 247 Motel
and twice call out your name.
Through the parted curtain
the street lamp shines
like the prop
of a full moon,
though it flickers in November wind,
imperfect and hallowed.

And this was your dream
of ecstasy and thorns,
of divinity falling like a star
from the North.

When it comes
every home
turns to leaves and ashes.
Dirty reflections
and dry offerings.
After the end of desire
even birdsong
becomes an unnatural thing.