She reminds me of a salad,
that perfect blend of things,
a subtle mixing of ingredients
saying much and yet…
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She reminds me of a curry…
Not those weak imitations
you get at people’s houses
who have never been to India.
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Ashes fell from his fist unhurried,
and formed a little mound upon
the table we shared “Just a trick”
I thought to myself, but was shaken.
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“Let me tell you something.”
We had been talking and we
had been drinking for hours…
Finally he wished to tell me…
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It worked for Scrooge, why not the Republican Party?
We are in need of Three Ghosts to visit the Republican Party.
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Her dark eyes flashed with amusement,
a challenge, and a warning both,
“Niño… I burn, perhaps someday I
might burn for you, or just burn you.”
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I have blood on my hands,
My improbableness has cost…
Innocence and innocents were
sacrificed upon my bloody alter.
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We were a bonfire, My Love
We scorched and burned
each other and left so very
little in our red-hot wakes.
The very first moment we
touched, blistering lips
upon blistering lips. I knew
that we would be consumed.
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I find myself sitting alone at a table,
writing to those that never were.
Victims of vicious, pointless hate.
And I find myself weeping for them.
How many songs went unwritten and
how many jokes were left untold.
How many tender touches, gentle and
loving kisses died in barren murder?
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I fell in love with your shoes… I know I know…. it was shallow, a poor reflection of me as a man… but what chance did I have?
There they were, a pair of black, patent leather, pointed toe, with a 4″ high stiletto heel, Italian pumps… size 41…
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