silenced by the suddenness
  of a thought
turned on by the simplest
  touch of light
the city falls asleep
  on a bed of white fog
whispering lies
  and gossiping about winter
telling me about the sex life of the moon,
  the sun's more interesting
the sun's a bisexual.
  A soft star falls
but stars are asexual
  unless they happen to be
the binary kind.

will you wait for me in the next
  red dawn?
will you think of me during your
  drunken insomnia nights of The Doors
and new age poems?
  perhaps we'll have a chance to connect
and have a deep heart talk
  a true conversation of soul.

and the universe makes love
  all around us
while the planet Mars masturbates
  to the thoughts of a red dawn bleeding
on my lonely bed.
  a short confession:
I'm afraid to make myself bleed.
  poems touch only the soul,
and tears are more innocuous than that
  faggot sun.  nobody knows the moon's
a virgin longing to be touched.
  only the red dawn
and the red dawn bleeds
  and
    bleeds
for the moon's amusement.


POEM WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF A VAN GOGH POSTCARD:  
CAFE TERRACE

I am a poet
  In a tainted garden.
Don't ask me what I'm doing here.
I have angels' hair
  (if angels have long filthy
    uncombed hair).
and I have deep socket shoes,
dried and bleeding lips—
 but I'm running out words.

Here I am
  Always where I seem
    To dream to be,
Here
  In the confusion of a candle,
Only one flame
Burning no name
turning no shame—
Ask the pigeon
  Where the sky is born
I am a guard on the tower
  Of the day's lost light.

Don't ask me if her eyes are pure,
Don't ask me why this poem is
  Lost and fragmented, spilt wine
On pure white sheets of soul,
Don't ask me if the light is pure
The light can
  Only be
    As pure
      As your thoughts.

Pigeon blood, candle flame
A cold deserted campus
Lemon grass hot tea
And a lost and unclaimed feather.
The feather is white and stained
  With blood.
The feather is pure
Purer than the light
Purer than her eyes
Purer than the candle's flame.
Don't ask me why.