I wrote you the most beautiful letter last night,
it was all scribed in the back of my mind,
and I knew once I fell asleep and awoke the next day,
I would forget, and I did, but...
I wrote you the most beautiful poem in the world,
and nobody heard it,
nobody but me.

In another life
I'm a miserable pianist performing for a bunch of drunks in some forgotten nightclub in some big city, or perhaps in the middle of nowhere, I play better than Ray Charles, better than Mozart, I'm alone, but I'm happy.
In another life
I never left that job that made me so miserable, my body is still broken, but I have a job, and a life, and a meaning, and perhaps I died doing what I loved, I'm getting that promotion that cost me my marriage.
In another life
I don't live in this city, these four walls are not my prison, my body is not this cage that the song keeps reminding me it is, my kitchen is not freezing, my room doesn't reek of bad decisions, I still work out, I am alive, and I am living.
In another life
I'm a singer, a public performer making spare change thrown in a hat in the middle of the street in Mexico, or England, or in a corner beside a cathedral, I live in the streets, but I am happy.
In another life
I wrote the number one best-selling novel in the world, my books have been translated countless of times and I'm a poet laureate invited to galas and celebrations at the white house, and I mingle with celebrities and royalty.
In another life
I am a champion boxer, or the greatest dancer, a certified chef, a glorified grand hero, I am the Dalai Lama, or the Pope, or some great religious figure that crowds follow into perdition.
In another life
I lived the many lives I wanted to live, but not this one,
anything, but this one.

A bottle and a kiss, a taste of whiskey on your lips,
You and I, my Ford Explorer, a park, nighttime.

Love dew, dripping from your thighs, vibrations, emotions,
roses on the dashboard, a prom ticket on the floormat.

The air, full blast, our sweat steaming fingers on the windows.

Your dark hair curls in my mouth, my fingers at your waist,
your feet on my shins, my tongue on your lips.

We explore each other as if searching for something in the dark,
We love each other like two people who cannot love themselves,
Nothing is left to the imagination, I see my reflection,
within your caramel eyes, one last time.

The song finishes, the bottle finishes, we finish.
Everything ends.

20 minutes till 7
Daddy comes home through the front door and puts his keys on the hook
19 minutes till 7
You come running out of the bedroom struggling to put your sandals on
18 minutes till 7
Daddy hears the doorknob twist and the bedroom door open
17 minutes till 7
You said it was the wind or perhaps me playing around
16 minutes till 7
Daddy finds "secret uncle Rob" hiding behind the curtain
15 minutes till 7
You try to stop Daddy and secret uncle Rob from fighting
14 minutes till 7
Daddy pulls out his pistol from the nightstand and points it around
13 minutes till 7
You scream, Daddy screams, secret uncle Rob screams, I scream
12 minutes till 7
Daddy keeps apologizing
11 minutes till 7
You're crying
10 minutes till 7
I feel dizzy and heavy and I'm scared
9 minutes till 7
Secret uncle Rob runs out the door
8 minutes till 7
Daddy raises his gun and starts shouting
7 minutes till 7
You, mommy, fall down next to Daddy
6 minutes till 7
I feel cold and heavy and sleepy
5 minutes till 7
Daddy grabs his phone and calls for help
4 minutes till 7
You're not moving
3 minutes till 7
I'm not moving
2 minutes till 7
Daddy points at himself and falls down next to you
1 minute till 7
I fall asleep
7...

Would you miss this world if you knew what it became?
The fire died out, the dirt was digged, the hole was made, and they put you in a pretty box,
Or maybe they cremated you,
I think she did, I don't know if that's what you wanted, you never mentioned your wishes to me.
That was because you thought you had five more decades within you.
Sadly, you didn't.
Everyone moved on, but not me.
I'm sorry I can't write you the novels you wrote.
You never did tell me your pen name,
Your alias died along with you,
I've tried asking around town,
But nobody knows that it was you who wrote the great American novel,
Nobody knows it, but me.
There is an ancient book covered in dust beneath a bookshelf that hasn't been moved in eons in a public library in a small town in Texas.
That book has your name on it.
I still remember Idaho,
I hope all the pines remember you.

"My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
I scream as I hang from my cross.
The birds come eat at my side,
I feel their beaks at my ribs,
there's blood pouring down my thighs,
I hear the droplets pooling down my toes and down onto the wet dirt.
The crowd murmurs and stares and I see no pity in their eyes,
but rather, a darkness,
a sense of expectation and wonder, waiting for the next spectacle to begin.
I have been abandoned by the almighty.
"Hineni my lord!"
Still, Death does not embrace me.
Behind me the veil is pierced and
above me the skies fall down.
The man with the longspear returns with a leather canteen and gives me salt water.
Two convicts beside me share my fate,
"Your God has abandoned us,
Curse him while there is still breath in your lungs!" The accused to my left shouts through the pulp where his mouth had once been.
"Remember me! Speak to your father on my behalf when you return to his kingdom". Begs the thief on the right, his sight now taken from him.
I close my eyes and await what is to come.
The nails sting deeper into my palms,
My fractured ankle bones give out.
The wind caresses my cheekbones,
It sings a secret chord, a final melody.
I taste the salt and iron on my lips.
A scent of lilies lingers the air.
I breathe in, I breath out,
It is done.

My father used to say,
"You don't have friends,
You have associates, or acquaintances,
And you can count your true friends with your ten fingers and you will still have fingers left."
He knew best regarding friendships,
He was once a member of a mafia with a specific job that involved torturing others.
Before that, he was in the service, and rarely spoke of it, there were no portraits of him in uniform around the house, although he always raised the American flag in our front yard.
I never saw my father hang out with anyone,
Or ever tell my mom he was going out for drinks or an afternoon with the guys,
No one ever came to visit, nor did we ever go to anyone's house.
He was sober for at least 20 years,
Way before I was born back then.
He would sleep long into the night and sometimes would begin screaming when he remembered the things he's done.
I always thought my father was crazy,
I had lots of friends left and right,
And I knew I could count on them and they on me.
After all, I was always there when they needed me, that is, until I needed them.
Slowly I began to notice that
I was everybody's friend,
But I have no friends,
I have associates.