cold breeze kisses the cheeks

while radiant sun warms the skin

in blissful combined contradiction;

it’s enough to wake you from the dead

to pull you from that rotting slumber

as a reminder that life is best lived

despite the lurking dark.

let us stand in the bright warm places

and sing against impending ends,

thankful for a moment or two,

thankful for me being thankful for you.

big drunk strides
like falling forever
but somehow with

u n i n t e n t i o n a l g r a c e

every step lands
with the confidence
of a person who doesn’t know
and doesn’t care
(or an idiot, we’re not sure which)

jump from the window
two stories up
and flow to the earth
with a smile stitched
from ear to ear
like Icarus without wings
failing to see
that gravity of it all

everyone is far away
in this too small room
filled with smoke and
butter knives with blackened ends
and you are like a ghost
because you are there
but not really…just mist

what’s this?
straight up the nose it goes
and then a taxi with someone
(who is that?)
to nowhere
(where are we going?)
as the cab takes off
the head stays where it was
and then snaps back to you
about 10 or 20 seconds later

how is it possible
you remember any of this
and have forgotten
so much that was important?
you misplaced your trench coat
that night;
so sad to have lost it –
like losing your skin
and walking around naked;
a capeless Batman – vulnerable

then on new year’s eve
brandishing bottles of Chateau Nevada
while she, this unknown, hung on too close
laughed too loud and bullied you to dance
until midnight came and we yelled as we toasted
as she looked at you and said “Well?”
and you were too stupid to know for moment
but then caught on – “Naw, i think i’m headin’ out”
and stumbled away…just like that

still, there was sun the next morning
as she sat with you and a dozen others
glaring death and ice and a thousand hateful thoughts
while we ate a greasy breakfast for kings
and gathered late to quietly consume
preparing for the coming of night
when the siren voices of Jon Anderson and Jim Morrison
would beckon us to the alter again
to light this strange Moroccan incense
and continue the cycle forever

or

at least to the end of the year

And here is Lisbon

Rearing up out of the Tagus

And covered in tourists

Like a dog with fleas

But what a dog!

And we

We two are are here

Me and she

Part of the infestation

In this place

We

We are happy

We rode the train

Back from Cas Cais

And there is the boy

A local

Showing his friends

His new football jersey

And they drink cheap beer together

To celebrate

And nobody cares

No one is getting hurt

Because we are each our own world

Here

Here you can be.

I smell fish and salt by the water

As I carry Pessoa in my hand,

He is heavy with the weight of life

But a burden I can bear

His was his heavier

I can feel the world press in

In the best way possible

While I think of the oranges

That are almost ripe on the trees

Lisbon says aranja differently

They say the J here

It is given a life of its own

Just like me…everyone

Lisbon says me differently

It gives me a life of my own.

Just a little black drop

Falls from the pen’s tip

Landing on the pristine,

The bright white fabric

Of the heavy weight paper;

Watch as it spreads

Running along the threads

So much larger than how it started;

A consuming void.

I understand.