A weathered face with lines
of great impressions;
And each wrinkle laid
across the epic poem reminds
me of unfathomable canyons that
I run fingers over…

(Your lips)
That were cracked from the
of each of your cigarettes;
And I always pictured you as a dreamer
one thats reliving new experiences.

Like the days of my childhood with
crumpled homework,
sloppy classwork.
(Dirt from cheeks that hold warmth
From your fingers)
Eyes sallow with twisted intentions
and only the visionary is a realist.

Oil paints and copper wire;
Construct the night with each star
outlined with achromatics and pastels;
From the face of the old man.
(My father)

And I ask him if he is lonely.
I believe he wants a friend;
And I stay out each night
you a
Of sonnets and prose;
like an ally cat and its blue truth.

Inebriated beyond redemption
and it is pretty (you are pretty)
at how petty I am to
See you…
Addicted – addiction.
and I was in love with an
Am I still not?

But with a ghost slung on my
back; like a backpack full
of lovers and sudden deaths.
(memoirs filled with recollections)
I recognize that agony in your ridiculed
expression – wise old man
(Or was it a reflection of my own image?)

And each crater is a crate
of secrets I told you –
and he told I.
Exchanged dreams and desires.

You keep us together like stitched jeans
and broken
A picture of remembrance against
the whittled ivory of your face –
a rock sunk in the ink of night.
The ink I write
(on each paper dabbled with my
thoughts and hopes of your
A box of rolling static
And untuned stations.
Across miles of statelines
And storylines.

And I ask him if he is lonely.
I still believe he wants a friend.
(Is he not a reference towards myself?)
A line in a poem with words like a letter.
a letter to you;

Alas, his face hung high
like the gallows contrasting
a mid October sky.
Defeat was never so sweet.

And you and I were never so