the sun sits on the city
as i stumble out of the theatre's
four feature horror festival
(how i forget the beauty
of a razor-blad 'cross the throat).
across streets and pass darkened shops,
i dwell on the moonlit glimmer
and evening shade of loneliness.
it's on the corner of 54th and barrett
that i've seen the Goddess.

across the avenue, i'll stop for a drink
in hopes of her peering eyes
through rattling venetian blinds.
an empty window,
i flick the dreg of a cigarette
to the ground, stomp it out,
and finish my excuse (a whiskey on the rocks).
i continue my path onto the "grounds"
(on open mic night i can pay for my drinks with a song)
sliding open the side door
and shaking miscellaneous hands,
it's hard to remember why
i still come here every monday.

when they call my name:
i play the stupid songs.
i sing the stupid words.
i bleed for all the people
who've come in hopes
of a public execution.
saying "thanks for your time,"
and not one of their's for mine;
i tip my drink back and catch her glance
with eye contact fixed like a mirror's reflection.

out back, She approaches and states
"tasting love through the ears is painful"
(i debate, compliment or insult)
comforting Her with a drink, i had to ask
"then, do You like to hurt?"

(adding "i like Your shoes"
as not to seem so low)

we stand by the fire,
breathing one another
rather than the city air;
speaking of suicide as an art
and my hands on Her body-
understanding Her words like braille.

in the morning we'll debate
which of us will pay for Her funeral.
But when the evening comes
I'll have made Her forever and eternal.

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