The Bedroom or the Bullet

We lay on cold sheets in a storm
the lightning bursts are like flash bulbs
as I stare out the slots of the shades
smelling you in between
and watching you dream
as the fan whirls clockwise
and every grain of sand swoops by for inspection
a new direction in this carnival
this carnage of the heart
struggling to remain grease-free
in the compounds of life
that line every lonely street
beautiful facades of dirty brick and brown
the white hotel curtains spill out of a window
a siren weeps in the distance
as cold, gray clouds make their way to shore
and the carnival rides are suspended in time
swinging metal gates of green and yellow
swaying cages testing the cold
as another leaf drops from God’s eye
and the colors all smell like warmed rum and roses
fireplace smoke belching from quiet homes
a quilt of steamships weaved across massive fields
of straw and grass and rocks that roar
quiet canyons shored by sandstone
begging copulation with legs and arms and sweat
screaming at clouds from upon your own private mesa
dancing with the bottle of brandy through the wind
miles of life stretched out before me
dug into the crooked hill
swamped with begging trees and moss
another furlough to the perimeter
looking for a crisp bed beneath a deer’s stranded leg
playing Santa Claus to the wishes in his head.

The pain all around wells up like a giant moth
expediting delivery of the empty kiss
from a stone or a lamp post
and in the mad sad he wishes to be delivered
to a wet execution complete with knives
and deep cuts into the core
to exonerate the pain of his past
to let them fly like black ghosts
searching for an engine
to blast them away forever
into a bank account that does not exist.

Thus, it breathes regret and guilt
for the moments that died
the moments that killed
the moments that were like flowers
the moments that were like caged isolation
and cold, yellow cement
the pity of all that bled
in the pinprick hole that is vision
and drumbeats of medicine
pounding through the skull
a licorice taste all nonsense and dry
fuming incense sticks covering the stale scent of
loneliness
in the bric-a-brac dogma
of life in the glossy television screen
so does he say “good night?” or does he say
“goodnight?”
the space in between can make all the difference
between a connection or a haunted breath.