Philosophers commonly hold the misconception
that among the infinity known only to gods
        you cannot have a perfect night. But I
know better, because the truth is
        you only get one - life, now I’m wasting this one
pondering the last, trying to decide

if it was really last night, that long ago,
when we threw caution to tomorrow like children
throwing laughter; we rocketed that car among
the stars and galaxies - so far from any moon (or
thing) we were
lost angels. and among the cosmos our headlights shone
eternally, light bathing light to the end of time’s eyes.
incredible creations stood spellbound to watch us,
unbelieving our        belief in the reason of rose.
rows of ghast ghostfaces stunned as graves, craning to see
as we surpassed, looking through us to what they
        never dared convinced it was illusion maybe we were

    dreaming of that oddshop on a side whimworld trip
where I bought my new soul
to wear amidst the black endlessness clear as glass
    slowly reading books on how to kiss
and pass the sunrise like touching winds        (if I had realized it would
ever
end

I couldn’t have smiled like I did when you asked. -- I never can again, before
I knew that
last night; now, park benches find me strange
talking to strangers, wanting but unable to ask
if they saw us, laughing up there beyond them in
journey, on four tires where rubber meets the rays,
just shy the shade of the moon’s dark side
playing with mad toymaker’s destiny.

It was around (1980) when time spirals
were beginning

How did it end? (Assuming it’s even over), just when I had you convinced I was
beautiful       and thinking we were outside anything’s
ending I plucked a comet-flower from the ether,
somehow aware of it as garden soil. A wrong turn                    (?)
somewhere, and Earth appeared just like a
cymbal crash, mistaken for a theatre’s gorgeous
fifth wall. The impact of existence tore us
apart (I remember it now). Real life began
with regret and screaming, (I can’t believe) I
can only hope

that perhaps it was not the last of those nights
some lifetime   we may do it
again.

dandelions frozen
while rainbows weep. (that's what it
feels like to miss your
words.)

the snowman exudes
an impossible impermanence;
he should’ve melted long
ago
but no one ever taught him
the laws of change
and his soul is stubborn
like a broken clock.

(the little boys who made him
from christmas wishes
are now old soldiers, fading away.
their minds swimming through
a haze of age, so gone they
are little boys again.

the little girls who dressed the snowman
in scarves
became witches, grandmothers
and whores,
making the magic to keep earth
alive).

but this is the story of a million raindrops
which met perchance on a winter day:
so the snowman remains,
king of middle of nowhere,
a wasteland of miracles
in his own mind:
searching wrecked
irate ships for treasure
and planting sunflowers in the
android’s heads, counting every day
‘til christmas.

he’ll catch a ride with Jesus
on a shooting star
and crash-land on earth,
falling apart
to be remade
by god’s ignorant
blueprints
again.