Blind Man and the Sun

tracing small town streets
she inches along in the shadows
filling thoughts between left turns
and Long Island Iced Teas
the barkeep at Olive'R Twist
serves me my regular
and I can't keep these hands
from paper confessions

there are as many miles between us
as days until I see you again
only patience or a Visa ATM
could shorten either
but late night phone calls beneath starlight
don't require oil changes and the days,
well, the days I use to cover pages in chicken scratch
to pave the way back to my front door

give me a Sharpie
and I'll cover our skins with enough words
to give deaf men back their joy of sound

I miss you like a blind man misses the sun
can feel it on his skin
but can't reach out and see its believers
so convinced of its divinity
that they glow back their conviction
for the rest of us to see

the drink is settling in
for a conversation with my liver
and these cigarettes are burning holes in my lungs
opening up the rest of me to pour out
reasons why I miss the nuances of your smile
my fingers recollect the secrets
the hairs of your legs told them
the last time I saw you

three hours a night when reception is good
and with full batteries
and a generous calling plan isn't sufficient
I want your voice to swallow me
30 hours a day

My ears are starving without you to feed them
they're holding out for the sushi of your stories
rather than the convenient store fast food
of the movie extras
who want to discuss the weather
and the "blah, blah" bullshit
to pass the time

give me your 1 a.m. brilliance
scribble your magic tricks on postcards
and mail them daily

you are a Doors concert in a sea
of garage band wannabees
let me crowd surf to your lyrics
while the rest of the world buys
black T-shirts and CDs burned on iMacs

you make me want to speak profoundly
write like statesmen scribbling their
final speeches en route to their own funerals
the only ink that should bleed from my pen
must save nations from civil war

make me a king
crown my prose with your hands
so I know I'm not wasting my time
bless my common verses into royalty
turn my blood blue with your sincerity
and that we'll build fiefdom of words

my neighbors at the bar
discuss police reports and margaritas
let me never be that dull
fill my lungs only with honest words
only faithful stories of you and I
visiting countries whose names people only know
from geography classes
watch movies as if we lived them
read books if we wrote them

I want to see you dance
own the stage with your feet
each footfall only echoing yours
I will never see movement again
except as a reflection of you

even in my last days
wrinkled and endlessly forgetful
I will recall a girl
who moved like a magic trick
that David Copperfield would envy

I flip through my wallet
slip out a card to pay for my truths
he gets $8 on a $12
and I get six pages of poetry
the payment of poetry to currency is acceptable
because alcohol was created
so poets could be free

these men at the bar speak of divorce
the way we speak of poems
lightly and without conviction
they play like children,
dropping names,
or bars or one-night stands
as if they matter

I won’t leave you over an argument
or sleep angrily in your absence
we'll never play this game
follow these men toward
such an easy separation of heartbeats

return to me and I am yours
over miles and time
and every morning you will wake
I will ask "how did your sun rise"

mine will always rise slow and brilliant
if your hand is in mine
if your skin speaks intimate secrets
tell me what haunts you
and I will do the same
now, with a kitten for a roommate to keep
me sincere of your confirmations

Chris pours his last drink
and I try to remember, but
they slip out and leave me waiting for you