Vernal Eternity

Vernal nights have returned
the sun stays out longer each night
to shine on the way we once shared
time in an endless garden
where we grew
and withered
too soon.

The colors of this summer fade
in the vivid memories of last
a kaleidescope of paradise
was our time on earth
our parting now
bleeds black
and white.

No simple apology can return us to
the anomaly of our delicate consonance
your absence and the darkness
that follows, without the light
of my mentor to guide
me to where
I belong.

You granted me the strength to breath
your kindness and benevolence gave me
the courage to pursue my own destiny
you held me close and kept
me still while the world
crumbled all
around me.

You were the gift received by the suffering
worth more than he who brought an end
to our creation though I will cling to
that regret forever for allowing
him to hurt you, my friend
Numb to which pain
is more unbearable
my stinging shame
or your aching
absence.

My best friend, my
mentoring muse,
my beautiful
tragedy, my
forgotten
dream.

Our memory will resonate
the most melodic
echoes in the
reservoir
of my
heart.

Here it is always those vernal nights
where the sun stays out longer
and we share time in the
endless garden where
we grow and
never wither
too soon.

Mr. Bukowski, please

Its not every night of the week
I put on a nice dress and fix my hair
and walk across the street
to the only bar in town I'll go
where the people are somewhat decent
at least in affording their overpriced beer.

Sitting alone with Bukowski
I'm the only one at the bar under 30
the only one with blonde hair
the only one with a glass of shiraz
the only one with a book
the only one cross-legged
the only one alive
wondering
what the hell I am doing here.

As long as I don't make eye contact
I know I can avoid at least
ten or more of the opposite sex
imagining me naked
imagining they could ever
get anywhere with me.

Normal people all around
playing pool, laughing, drinking
talking, arguing, breathing
and the only person I talk to
is the dead, old, alcoholic poet
as he silently reads his stories
of whores, An Empire of Coins and Jane.

This isn't how pretty girls are supposed
to spend their saturday evenings.
And I'm too damn pretty to be respected
or else he would have called to
tell me he wasn't coming
instead of sitting here alone
foolishly thinking
I need anyone more
than the old rotting words
of Mr. Bukowski.