Marooned on a couch brown raft -rocking lle-de-France
Sullen blackboard jazz blowin from across the navy New Orleans seas.
Slo-mo angels doing somersaults on my torn red curtain reverie
in these broken Halloween bones and mask
I rummage through the ashes that crashed me into
this pink, new golden face dawn..
floating past jagged-edged icicles into the night melting
chocolate Clark Terry’s “They Didn’t Believe Me.”
Love lost is something we can never afford
head stuck on a starboard mast
crashing through storm waves painted in dead dreams.
And feeling that familiar frost-bitten regret again- that we never
consummated the close quarters of then,,,what are regrets other than
dead sea gulls floating in a ghost soup sea.