The holidays remind me of you.

Your scotch.

Your gold St. Christopher.


My Favorite Dream.

I woke up in time

before the flames got to me.

I didn’t take a second glance

walking past your door.

You burned down our house

so I left you charred.

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Palm Desert.

You are flesh and bones
and dusty roads,
I am a small pebble
in your steel toe boots,
a desert prickly pear.

You are a worn old Buick
dirt caked tires,
and your voice
a warm whiskey —

with a hint of sarsaparilla.

You are Dusty Springfield spooky,
the desert wind
has me under its spell
and you are freedom.

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You kissed my face and

the sun went down

surrounding me in the darkness of your warmth,

rusted pieces of the past

glitter in the desert sand

filled with broken bits of quartz

and animal bones.

You found me there,

where ghosts hide behind the shadows of rocks

their spirits encircle the wind

they are dust,

arid land.

You close your eyes

inhale deeply,

you take in death

you take in life,

that is the way of the Mojave.

Death Valley.

I have dreams where

I scream at you until

my voice breaks and I

can no longer breath.

I wake up sweating and red faced.

You won’t leave me alone.

I keep telling you to stay away.

You only stare back at me and smile.

In my dreams you are always across the street.

I scream until I see stars but you only step closer.

I see the shadow of your feet infiltrating

the light underneath my bedroom door.

I slash open the palm of my hand as an offering of peace.

The blood drips and weaves toward the door.

A puddle collects by your boots.

Snakes around the back of your heel.

But you remain.

No amount of blood could satisfy you.


So I lay my gun on the nightstand,

across from the red room key.

This is an old mining town in the middle of hell.

Many people die here.

A paranormal group takes pictures of ghosts and peeling walls.

My gun lay at the side ready.

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