And exile,
like smoke at 3:30 in the dark morning
recording laughter and shadows
carved in smoke
after the cigarette-grey winter
hanging down your walls, a black fade...
and your only pleasure a recorded dream
spliced out of a damp hologram memory;
the visual echo of her eyes over azure dunes
tinted, and layers of exotic river chrome
like God’s fountain, distorted
and vanished.

And exile,
the deep quiet of glass-thin smoke
swirling grey in the empty corners of
the numbing luxury Dakota hotel room
over Central Park westside and Lennon’s last stand
with the dying origami chords of electric metal
lost in the fractured breath, fused
w/ the sound recordings of hypnagogic colours;
of burnt sienna expounding time’s continuum
layered in contralto rhythms,
cicada rhythms,
the liquid silver of dislocation yawned
beneath staccato violin arpeggiations
into the endless smoothe
eternal seasons of deja vu,
the velvet curtains of black jazz
steaming behind a saxophone rainfall
in deep melancholia cruel, vulpine...
what reminds you of the strange fruits
what reminds you of her soul
and miles of cold blue misted train tracks
twisted down into a summer subway season
in hell’s darken romance.
Those shadows vanished into the vastness
of a still night beside the Harlem river’s
east-side highway and canyon banks
the wet lights and champagne
when she said ‘oui.’
So bittersweet, the dusty projection of Mona

now, scattered...
inside the beginning of a bad memory

wearing those cheap sunglasses she loved
as she walks into that last December shadow
w/ the rusting leaves rustling
and fractal flowers
of grey snow peeling away
and bruised across
her perfect smile.

And exile,
like smoke at 3:30 in the desperate morning
already stretched from the longest night
the deep stained curtains bring no comfort
like the dangling dead spider-webs above;
you remembered what you tried
so hard to forget, but sometimes...
sometimes that’s all you can do,
forget to forget;
how you loved her in that recorded hour
in the freezing damp
of the city’s ancient bones
with the etched flame of candelabra crow wings,
how the night sky reminded you
in horizontal shades
of her black Gucci dress, and the many cocktails
over New York’s neon-washed skyline,
pure as any drug;
the tide and waves of night
and deep reverberate bass-beats
pounding and throbbing in your soaked soul,
'versez-nous des autres,' her lips glisstened,
her smile pulled you unearthly and under
made you feel like smoke
and you did,
you poured her another
even though she had too many already,
and everywhere you looked the empty windows
down the vibrating streets, like ghosts
all blurred in watercolor impressions
into the continuous murmur of intoxicant
51st and Broadway bruised traffic
the night had creaked and vertigo fell

away...
(inside the beginning of a bad dream)

pure as any drug
 a slow saxophone glide
into the cymbal crash and breaking fragments...
and then the splash of piercing screams
the wet road against your feverish face
the crowd and sirens melting into ice-cubes
as the snow smeared with blackened blood.
In that moment you forgot everything;
how her eyes turned the color of a pale sunset
the outlines far away
the red neon glow across her fading face
the spilled contents of her purse
revealing dark secrets
and the thick colorless smoke
shedding like the skin of a dead snake
slowly around the twisted metal
all forever crushed, now, drowned behind
drowned away, drowned into dust...

...drowned/drowning
and when you had looked upwards
the buildings morphed into rain
falling, coming down...
(and exile)

And bullets,
bullets in your morning coffee
your face glowing in the television glare
into the hissing of white static noise
after her friends had all gone away,
how the cruel night embraced you
with too many goodbyes
how they all said they had loved her...
so many faces you had never knew,
'so many faces.' So numb.
You lean forward and inhale the fumes
of heavy brandy, the last sweet breath
of her taste, like pollen-
 the way her lips trembled
-like honey.
And the grey smoke of winter
hangs down your walls crawling
out onto the concrete balcony
with the crawling ivy vines hanging
and you, now wearing her
priceless plastic sunglasses
she found them in the Village
outside that midnight jazz cafe'
the moment you met,
(how they transformed her into a
1940s Hollywood film noir star,
and you played the part;
Bogart and Bergman... Casablanca...
“Here’s looking at you babe.”
Her laugh was perfect.)
And you, now
watching the snowfall
in chromatic vermilion
falling, dripping down
the smoke stained
windows

and outside,
Mona’s ghost walking
down the white streets, forever...
into the last December shadow
the middle of a bad dream, a bad memory

And exile,
the final exile of the now and ever was
after the wreaths have been laid
the last orchid to be placed in her hair,
fragments of forever gone
you turn back to the silver screen
and shiver

seeing her there in a grainy frozen snap-shot
feral beauty arched over dark eyes
crowning her in soft exhaustion
in the warm wet blanket of the forever night;
then the moment snaps you back hard and bright
you rub your smashed eyes and breathe deep
deeply in the winter’s late hour,
you light another cigarette
and close the door,
"ici vous regarde bébé"
and the door closes
and the door is closed
and the door turns to smoke...

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