mmm…Mania.
Sweet and delicious, wonderful mania.

I am but clay, you are my lifeblood.

Caffeinated with severe insomnia,
I am wondering about from place to place.

I am in love with and disgusted with the entire world all at once.

I am amused by the people who wonder through my life,
stopping for brief moments
or months
or passing me on the street.

Constantly moving,
constantly in motion,
constantly creating,

not an artist,
how dare you,
but an insomniac.

Can’t sit still, constantly exhausted.
Wine and lemongrass.
Tea by the fire.

Dancing barefoot in moonlight,
barefoot in lamp light,
barefoot in fluorescent light.

Down Craig
and Carson
and Washington
and Liberty.

Down the strip surrounded by
smells and colors
and textures of imports,
surrounded by warehouses.

Coffeeshop
bookstore
bar
martini lounge
restaurant.

Waiting: progress bars, answers, paychecks, trolleys, 5:00/6:00/7:30, Friday, lunchtime, lines.

Kerouac,
Cassady,
Ginsberg,
Kyger,
Kaufman,
McClure,
Hemingway.
Curled into you.

Olive Oil across,
fingertips across,
silk across,
your lips across my skin.

I cling to your lips and die in the moments before you leave.

You want to
paint me,
on me

with
honey
and caramel
and chocolate, rich ochres and mahoganys a work of sepia.

You draw across my body in ink,
flesh is canvas
and I awake to your memory etched across my skin.

I awake to your memory burning still across my flesh,
ruminants of fingertips from hours before.
You play my body like music and I whither as I plead myself not to come.

Or I awake to you in bed beside me,
kisses and hugs and me hiding under pillows in my big bed,
frightened of another form in this land that was once all mine.

You tell me your rationelle tells you to leave,
you hold it against me that I am not catholic
and I will not marry you
and I smirk at you bemused.

I watch you and know you will not leave.
You grow frightened of my lows,
watch helplessly as I pull demons from my treasure chest of a past
and smear them across white paper and canvas.

You seek salvation in my highs, h
oping these fluxes to pull you out of monotony.

I sit quietly and listen to you speak,
wild ideas and of your past.

Watch you work puzzles out in the sky,
through the trees and I write the scene in my mind
or in my leather brown
or on a napkin placemat grocery bag book margin receipt gumwrapper nothing.