I satellite around him like a distant weightless moon, sucked in by the centrifical force of his powerful persona.

If he is Jupiter then I am Callisto, destined to dance in the pull of his orbit, forever locked in his embrace.

But what if I wanted to be my own diva planet, dense with nebulous ideas, heavy with milky emotions?

What if I were to become an omnipotent orb of intense attraction, one that captured lesser moons and held them close?

I need to know.

So I hang my farewell to Jupiter on the handle of The Dipper, writing these words in the dust of the cosmos:

 

          Goodbye and good luck.    I have taken the dogstar Sirius and left on a comet.

           The world is yours.  I’m taking the universe.

 

Copyright 2009

Your eyes are the ocean, intimidating and infinite.

Would you save me from drowning if I actually tried to swim?

But I know you, as much as I know the dark corners of my own soul.

You would let me slip beneath the inviting surface, struggling and burning for the last independent breath…until I surrendered at last and became one with your see.

Copyright 2009

I taste the lies on your lips.

Even though you dip each word in honey, the bitter sensation of deceit still permeates each bite.

Yet I feast on your conversation like a starving fool.

Copyright 2009

You have spray-painted grafitti all over my life and I am sick of the tags.

People in the neighborhood don’t know anymore if I’m a felon or a philosopher.

Every morning when I wake up, I am covered with some new colorful, bubble-lettered acronym standing for your latest rant.

Is this how you spend your nights, illustrating my psyche with your urban tattoos?

Well, I’m taking a shower before I go out to the store. 

And that spray paint better be gone before I get home.

I’m going to buy you a computer.

Copyright 2009

You tell me that I am not sentimental, that I lack an emotional anchor to the past which is why I free form all over the present.

I know you feel that I am distant, disappearing around the corners of relationships, failing to appear when I am most needed…or wanted.

You have also hinted at the possibility of an alternative world within that appeals to me more than this one.

“That is why you write.” 

Your words slam against my soul, creating gouges and cracks which only I can feel.

But none of this is true.  None of it at all.

But you will never know because you cannot understand.

For my heart is an infinite locket into which I have tucked away every word you’ve ever spoken, every touch you’ve ever given, and every breath we’ve ever shared.

No one knows any of this is hidden away.  Only me.

But late at night, when all the universe is asleep in its stillness, I open up this cold unsentimental heart and weep with passion at all there is inside.

Copyright 2009

When I woke up, my heart was tender and bruised.

I’m not sure what happened last  night, but if you touch my love I will cry from the pain.

Who knew a heart so hard could be so fragile?

Copyright 2009

The photography exhibit consists of three galleries of gel-print portraits circa 1947-1965.

It is an odd time of day and I am the solitary breathing soul in a mausoleum of muted ghosts.

Each captured image of a life no longer lived holds me in an observer-subject bearhug of a quest for immortality.

Can I give them what they most want?

Can I search for that moment in time when their eyes electrified space through a camera lens and asked me a favor?

I give unabashed attention to a gangly group of adolescent boys in jeans and white t-shirts, Uptown Chicago, 1953.

I can smell their Brylcream and cigarettes.

I can see the testosterone almost curl the edges of the printed paper.

I gave them what they wanted most when I was with them.

Do I really owe them that much more now that they are no longer here?

A quick check confirms there is no guard on duty yet.

I place a fingertip on each eager boy and close my eyes.

copyright 2009