These sacred walls were built

With callused hands

Each stone set in blood and tears

How many have walked these halls

In amazement

Wonder

And aw?

How many were fooled by the stained glass and jewels?

Not I

For all I can think as I journey this place is

How many have died here?

The floor boards scream in agony

The air here

Is heavy

With the weight of the past

Stagnant

A sin it can hardly bare

It holds on to

The proof of all the slain

Traces linger and remain

As ghosts whisper

Claustrophobia sets in

I need to escape

I am being buried in this place

Please

Won't you let me be free

Of the centuries mistakes

Or will you continue

To haunt me

Where there should have been hugs

He received fists

Instead of kisses

He was bit

There were no I love yous

Only hatred

Never wanted

Abandoned

Never worth it

Just so worthless

Replaced his happiness

With bitterness

Instead of friendliness

He put them down

Trapped forever in this place

He doesn't know another way

His eyes study me

An open textbook of memories

Involuntarily regurgitate my heart

As senseless words fall from my lips

His laughter is my anti-depressant

Cleansing me of its noxious grip

Clueless about how he feels

Taunted mercilessly by the unknown

I sit next to him

A feeble attempt to get closer

As he ties the noose a bit tighter

I think I am in too deep

As he pushes me over the edge

pedaling the streets of

California

head full of draining

garbage, of waste

looking around, seeing what's waiting

feeling ready to either

embrace what's left with resignation or to

embrace it with what I know is right to

be true

as it is with the words

with how we clean our teeth or

suffer the damages

out there pedaling

four cups of caffeine

going toe to toe with

the head cold

pouring sweat toward

a hill

thinking of summer waiting to the north

while a band from there

plays on in my headphones

while I crank past two bums

on the grass and ride off the curb

toward the hill and I think about

how we destroy what we love

not with action but with inaction

I shift into the lowest gear

to punish my cold

while the sweat pours out

and the guitars thunder

beautifully around the

stanza:

Augustino

With his eyes once a shining sea

I said he's half a shadow, god don't

let that be me...

up the hill

suppress the cough

the anger

level out and breathe

watch the leaves and sun

and remember that

we are here

for just so long

and the time

we have

might be nothing

in the big picture of

things

but for me

it's all I know

and what stems from that

is a fist of years grown

into miles and stories

and novels

a fist of colored fingers

with branches confused

and leaves stained

with decision

both bad and good

the base

planted in blood

and poems.

Riding through

Sacramento

toward the old part

of downtown

through the marina

just over the tracks

the homeless fish for

fuck knows what

kind of sewer-raised fish

in that water

my buddy is on his

beach cruiser and

I glance back

at him

while we pass along the water

old tents scattered

lives scattered

from meth

or methods against

law or society or

another person

or maybe the one who

is trying to make eye contact

with me is just an old fashioned

junkie dead to his dreams

and alive to his fear

I keep pedaling

and remember the good

things

the warm, salt water

of Puget Sound

the taste of good

wine and the sound

of warm waves

beneath the summer

of home

and above the

circles of whales

of seals surfacing

to bark

of crabs walking

along the sandbar

by the jetty

while my hands meet the water

from the dive

with the white

jelly fish safely

around the shore

of Alki, floating between

the city and the West Side

the water fronting

the buildings and

shores and islands

like

a

spectrum almost

mysterious to me

while we ride past the

marina and

into the beauty of

Old Town Sacramento

the city has a pulse

a vibrancy

a mix of every place

in California, when I

really stop to

think about it.

We sit and slam coffee

while I watch the

people

and think about

the shores

of summer

-burning alive after

the rain, the water

awake and stretching

for dusk

the waves rolling

across to meet

our feet

-warm, sun-soaked

and

waiting.

1

bloody mary and burger and pen

careless on a friday afternoon

candle, menu, page and ink

out the window and lifeless in dust

rot the hours and uniform, the burning

of waste and heart and index.

the hot shame and flames and fire

burning and

twisting

and

screaming

I raise the drink to my stupid mouth

while across the ocean

a lion mounts his female.

2

my dog sunbathes in the

tall grass of my backyard

he has one blue eye, which is electric

and see through, and he has a partial

blue eye, so I called him Chico.

Not very writerly of me. I guess I

could have called him Capote,

or Mailer, come to think

of it. He's a macho one, but also feminine

on a few levels. I think if Mailer and Capote

fucked, though, Mailer

would have been on bottom.

Not for loss of control,

but for total control.

3

I don't know you anymore,

but I will call you Alexandra

I will hold your body without

weight or breath or bother when

the branches break in the northern wind,

while death dangles ugly

while the warfare harvests its dead, its

brown leaves

while the sorrow usurps loneliness

I will call you Alexandra

for no other reason than you are nameless

and I am alone and destroyed

but maybe

I will call you Alexandria because

in a novel you were sweat upon

and shot upon in the back of an

old green van

I would call you Bronte or Joyce,

but you are far too beautiful

for them.

I will call you mine, here, for no

other reason than you can't exist.

4

sunday 5:45 p.m.

burning, dragging, a break in the blinds

shows the breath of Gauguin

with the metal grip of

Geiger, but not the taste

of ash or fire.

liquid screams pour

onward

leaking and

burning

and

dragging poor Gauguin

away from Tahiti

and through

the ages.