just another breakdown

it’s happening again
but what it is
i don’t know
what i’m feeling
like my best friend died
or worse yet
someone i’ve never met
the urge to be a part
of what i’m not
even though i know
the imitation will kill me
but so does being my own
that i want to share
with the nonexistent other
who is mother sister
lover bodhisattva
bereft on southern shorelines
or ice cream parlors
or off for jaunts to london
sending back postcards
to console the sorrow
‘but without the pain
you wouldn’t be you’ she said
so who would i be
and am i alive
my rhymes and lines
taken for madness
i’m beginning to agree
as a simple perfume
takes my mind on a kite
to be tangled in the trees
with the child crying
maybe i should see a doctor
maybe i should see a razor
maybe i should see an sunrise
i left the middle class
thinking of the boiler room
and went for a cigarette
walking without aim
to a nearby hotel
cheap beer in a fancy glass
imagined conversations
with bukowski and hemingway
they left me with the bill
the last of the can
drained into the glass
so silent i could hear
the foam head settle
over the television
and continued writing
on cocktail napkins
as i asked for another
the tab was four bucks
i dropped a five and left
went back to class
is that you friend
calling me back from death

A.L.


17 Oct 1991

In Pathos center there is a square,
Within it stands statue fair;
Marble pure unblemished white
Ambrosia to tongue is it to sight,
On high pedestal this marvel stands,
All eyes of Pathos it commands.
Oft’ at this statue would i gape,
At silken tunic and velvet cape;
Cherubic face and gentle cheeks,
A greater Venus you would not seek;
Yet as it stands on such a height,
Few such details reach our sights.

So on a moonlit evening – in the the square I creeped,
And with no one looking – I scaled the lofty steep.
At eye to eye and face to face,
My heart quivered in a frenzied pace.
Deeper beauty than eyes cans see,
With the heart must this vision be.
So closer now to mine own eyes,
I see the sorrow of her cries.
These tears that flow with no recourse,
What pool within these rivers’ source;
In waters deep and murky swells,
Drown mordant screams f anguished hell.

What pain could be so bitter,
To sting a soul so dear;
What could be so burning,
To such a young heart sear.
Fair O could this wound not be,
So deep impaled within her heart;
Mistaken was the archer’s aim,
When he fired this poisoned dart.

But she is rock and I am flesh,
Never were our loves to mesh.
And as I thought such, I began to weep,
All the while driving off to sleep;
As I slept the pallor left,
And so was she her grieves bereft.
Tresses from white to earthen tone,
Ice blue diamonds her sockets shown;
Stone now flesh – no longer ashen,
Life surged within – so great with passion.
And down she stepped and sat to rest,
Cradling me in her sweet breast.

My pain so callow in her embrace,
Tears so cold drip down my face;
Dries them with her locks of hair,
Comforts me with tender care.
And so I slept in tranquil peace,
While I dreamt my love released.
I woke from slumber at her feet,
And in her face my eyes did meet;
Those same carven tears of stone,
That to my heart had sorrow shown.
Then I struggled close to peer,
And spied a wetness in her tears;

Trickled from her sculptured eye,
A tear that was from human cry.

day and night

I: Day

sitting on a bench across from the fountain

under late day clouds of grey

the sun’s retired early

and left the sky alone

blowing on my cappuccino to cool it down

the froth swirls and i see a universe

in the paper cup

smoking cigarettes, reading kerouac

i need three hands for all that i’m doing

passers walk by and stand beguiled

at the peaceful setting accused defile

i think there is blood in my cup

II: Night

dormitory stairwells reek of tenement houses

the rancor of stale beer pervading

reading baudelaire by midnight streetlights

the warmth of a match drives the night chills

hither for but a moment

the shivers of sleep and empty sheets soon to entrap

letters to reach where hands can not