here behind this glass,
smoked for sunset,
on a non-comfortable chair.
wait for forgotten love
to land,
to smile and trip-toe
down the ramp to me.
it's night now,
no planes, only lights
coming and going,
no one else here now,
just me and a sweeper,
sopping up silence with 
lost luggage
and a worn-out p.a.







can barely hear the clunk
of pipes now.
too late for pressure change--
darkness makes people sleep.
dimness here, though,
not real dark.  fake plastic
night, silver curtains of 
light stars and cloud cover.
stale breeze, smokeless air
cleans hair and clothes,
right through the skin.
can sleep the wind, 
the night's slow breath, 
can wash away the evening.







talk about wastelands
talk about the future
nuclear winter
hell-bound summer
shepherds in pulpits
and podiums,
but everyone dead 
in the audience,
dead in the blue
talk-box halo
of living rooms and chairs.
Angels of gold
and heaven on earth
live forever on earth
in a tube,
in a tank of human
atrocity,
our sacred chemistry,
one ray of hope in the
next wave of magic,
the new godless miracle,
(with all of our dreaming)
a chance to go home.

it must be rain
this time
not blue but black
or gold.
gold sounds lonely
crazy angry at the world
sopping wet
and whispering

get out,
strange sounds,
broken music,
too weird for tonight,
too bright for the purple
clouds that cover everything.
filter through like
black water,
a thin vine of shiver.







is it time now,
for something whispers again,
someone motions in the back
and I'm climbing off the stage.
is this all   ?
is this the end,
the final finality,
the breaking broken zenith?
a sunrise cracked in two,
and all the smothered night
spilling out like death's
lonely reason







god i miss the flowers now,
dying in the autumn sun like
butterflies, as yellow as their name implies.
A petal on my cheek, on lips that long
to eat the freshness of pollen,
long to do a bee's work in the spring.







giant rocks set up for someone to see
lifted there for you, for us
with mossy green tops
and damp undersides.
a swamp, perhaps,
or an old lake,
turned and tortured by years of seasons,
green with envy for our love.