rachel

Rachel,

I liked her,

I did.

She wore a black laced glove,

on one hand.

She was an artist,

but she didn't have the

life experience.

She was one of those college types,

but I'm sure she'll figure that out later on

her own.

In the

real world.

But I liked her,

I did.

She was a blonde,

but---

a jewish

blonde.

Not to say that was bad,

not one

single

bit.

Just that,

during sex,

she only had one position and

was not very creative.

She could flex in all sorts of

strange directions,

but what I wanted was the

affection and

power

of being on top.

yet,

something hurt her.

I never understood why.

Maybe it was fear of

going too deep,

She was

a good girl...

I think it took her a good 3

months to get over me.

a flattering proposition,

but when she was gone,

and I knew it,

it was my turn

for the 3 months to get

over her.

my pretty little jewish blonde,

Rachel.

how I miss her so...

buk, h, c

buk buk buk

say my thoughts,

I know who you are.

and I have

HALF

(MORE THAN HALF)

a bottle of jack daniels left,

and see this glass of Jack?

I'm going to

FINISH

it,

just for you,

in your honor.

and then one more,

and then another...

I stare at the glass,

here I go!

taken,

drunk,

like the brave young poet.

brave, brave, brave.

say my thoughts.

5 minutes later and the coil is gone,

is it your turn,

my friend?

the cooking pot

the art is

wrapped around

their necks

like scarves in

orange october

nights.

they were the son's of

beaten house wives,

houses of terror and

violence.

they were the son's of

divorces,

the cheats,

the image of one

strange

strange

man in

bed with their mothers.

they were the son's

hoping for love in

small places like

the back of

car seats.

they were the freaks,

the alones,

the gifts for the

bully

in the schoolyards

from hell.

they understood very little

but knew even

more as they

went quietly about.

the beatings.

this art,

it lands like a red ladybug

upon the shoulder.

it is grown from

karma

going south of the mercury

and

then pulled from

the brown earth into

the white page.

it is not like the

blossom of the rose but

the rot of the withering

weed.

there are nights like this,

strangled.

Juan Tizol

the only hispanic from the

Jazz era.

From Puerto Rico.

Composed

Caravan and Perdido.

A trombone player.

freddie freeloader

Miles Davis's 2nd song from Kind of Blue. It was inspired by a guy named Freddie who would sneak into Jazz clubs to listen.

Soon

I want to drive somewhere far

along a desert highway.

I want the empty road with cacti

on all sides with small pink flowers.

I'll play Hotel California

LOUD

amongst the wisp of

desert wind.

I want to remember of all the times

I've wanted this one simple wish;

more than ideal love.

there is a time to break from

routine and explore the

soul's passion.

a fire that burns holy that

can not be consumed.

I'll stop somewhere along the road at sunset.

I'll write a poem.

but I'll remember this one,

of want with fire of desire.