signs of life

the sky sits steepled and murmuring, wavering

with a blue heat.  broken desires shift in the fingers of the wind,

the tides of sand accepting the congregation of debris and mistaken needs.

It is simple, there is no water to reflect me and your eyes

have submitted to other  pressures.  Without a mirror I cannot see

my breath

.

my voice skips

my voice skips across the
surface of the night
ripples spread, searching
for the edge of you




.

headlights

a quick flick of photons reveals

tumescent flesh

orgiastic and lethal

a cloying sweetness seeking satisfaction

before deteriorating back into night

.

because of Bukowski's birthday

life through the lens of a beer bottle

narrowing pain to a smaller focus

something shared in whatever form

the gutter takes, or the

hell that must be paid.

the book and verse of too much loss

ratified by the hammerstrike

of type written fingers

.