The Pink Ticket

A playground of many muses.

The Pink Ticket - A playground of many muses.

Project 365: A Year in Words, Day 365

And there are times she thinks
she’d like to fall in love vast
under a starry sky, but even so
she’s not so wanton with affection
she’d rather let the dice roll–
hard eight to the dealer
pass to the left, familiar story.
A centaur’s arrow was only
once mistaken for Cupid.
Caught between man and beast
primal and civilized; waiting
among the muses, sundered
and languid lovers always
just beyond reach.

Project 365: A Year in Words, Day 364

Darkness comes early these days
but it’s no reason to sing quietly
in the car, as you drive home.
The evening only appears silent
and is as much the reason
We Are The Champions should
be sung (off key) loudly waiting
on a left turn light. At least
the windows were up,
and I should hope so, at 27 degrees.
And as we fade into Pinball
Wizard, I wonder if the crazy fuck
intended his rock opera to someday
be so toneless while weaving
recklessly toward home
where beer and cookies await;
yes, I’d like to think he did,
imagine it that way, someday.

Project 365: A Year in Words, Day 362

And then when December comes in
all that remains are the memories
of the way summer fell; sunshine and beer
nights around a fire with salt water
waved hair hinting of smoldering
eucalyptus. Days brush blue against
heavily stretched muslin, now they flicker
gray splashed with hints of autumns
orange fading into the dearths of rejuvenation
biding time as the brushes slash stories
cut from hourglasses spilling out
across palettes, across lives.

Project 365: A Year in Words, Day 361

There is no light
within clouds,
smothering fog
oxygen deprived
angels sing of days
before the rise of Zeus
before blood soaked
tears shuttered
out of the reprise
above…and below.
Getting through
the thick–
the absolute void
where color once lived,
civilizations prospered;
a fate reclaimed.

Project 365: A Year in Words, Day 356

What happens when the words cease;
the juggernaut consumes us back
among the stars and the early morning
ne’er once calls us home?
Could we be so lucky then, love,
to dance amid the follies and sing
afloat the wind the way we dreamed to?
Does the infinite end into a place
where like in the days of old time movies
the credits rolled precariously down
a black and squared screen set to music sweet;
waiting on the last lines to tell us
who sings that song we never will forget?
Tell me, love, do the answers enthrall you;
send you into melancholic wonder?
Tell me, love, shall we find them together?