I am not Alone
Faces in the leaves of trees
reflected in my windowpane
since he’s gone
Aliens & baby yoda
stare back at me
They live in the passion flowers
Church of Eight Wheels
Evocative music
in a very old room
Eyes lift to deep blue
dark red stained glass
Mother Mary looks down on us
Step back chasse forth
Fingertips reach up
lifted from my waist
My grey haired
flabby armed self
dances with beautifully flawed humans
Proof
I am not
Alone
Windswept
Blowing hard my head destabilizes
after I take a toke of my pipe
Wind settles down
to a whisper
God’s greens float or
bob like a bobble head of
baseball fame
on the dashboard of a long car
But the wind today!
greeted us with such fervour
Our hair whipped about our faces
Just a bit of cold on bare arms
Outside on the street talking
to Violeta brown goddess
in turquoise jewels
living rent controlled for a million years
The Bed on Bush Street
When I bought the house on Bush Street
the owner told me it was haunted.
One late night we saw her by the Christmas tree.
She stood looking out,
shimmering with the lights reflected in the front window.
When I was in bed alone one time,
I felt the mattress springs depress down
as if someone had just sat there.
I remember making love
to an electric shimmering green outline.
His name was Bruce. We were married.
His sinewy arms holding me as I licked his face.
Another time when I lay alone
an ineffable calm overcame me.
I was high but it still felt like God knew who I was.
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