You are the elusive radio station I can’t quite tune in, the musky scent of shadow in the sweet cologne of thunderstorms.

Your name shudders like a passing ghost on the rim of every beer, a phantom memory tenuous on my fingertips.

And like some patient sniper in camouflage, you wait at the end of each new labyrinth – the only means of escape would make me your victim.

But I have never cared much for your music, and fragrances irritate my skin.

And while at times I may be homicidal, I have never considered suicide (at least not for myself).

So remember that I didn’t quite ask you for your secret, didn’t shake a magic eight ball to come up with the question.

I was just  some starving artist headed out for coffee and cigarettes when you made me a sandwich of promises and moonlight.

And now your memory has entered my soul and it is too late for me to forget you.

Copyright 2010

The 24-karat word stares aloofly back at me as I press my blue-collar nose up against the glass.

It is a majestic jewel of verbage, one I lust over obsessively.

But I am not even allowed into its presence.

I can only peer through the pane and imagine what it would be like to possess such magic.

When I return to my home, full of ordinary conversation and simplistic ritual, I will empty my pens of generous ink.

The commonplace words will bleed into the sheets and I will contemplate dreams concocted of cotton.

Someday soon I will empty the mustard jar and count all the  coins, even though I already know the possibilities of purchase are never enough.

It is painful to pretend, but the act gives me meaning.

Scooping up quarters, I will buy a lottery ticket, a feeble attempt to become someone I am not.

But I want you to know, if fate ever visits,  I would buy up that word and use it on you.

Copyright 2009

Very early this morning, long before you finished your dream, I wrote you a poem.

There was no alliteration or meaningful symbolism.

Just two simple words:  Look up.

So I am sitting here at the airport, drinking coffee with strangers, wondering when you will finally notice.

It isn’t easy forming the letter “k” with a skywriter.

Lend me your ring and I will give you my night.

Feel free to misplace your commitment around my lying finger and I will loosely barter independence for the promise of love.

I vow not to make any more of it than what it truly is.

All I ask for is seven hours of your silver circle, more dream than reality, more assesment than sin.

In the morning, I will leave your token untarnished and unfettered, no stigma of shame to shadow you home.

Lend me your ring and I will happily surrender – I’m a thief of the moment not interested in time.

Dawn is barely lifting up her nightie and I am already down by the river, tossing irrational thoughts into the water, waiting to see if a good one will float.

It is still so visciously early that no one is up yet, not the homeless, nor the squirrels, not even the crepuscular joggers who should do more enlightening activities with all that energy.

But then you call.

And I am on my way, headed towards the most irrational thought of all.

Sometimes I wish I could make better decisions.