Late Night Call

Calling me from my room
I get out of bed
and get into my car
I begin driving
through the night
Passing easily through
empty streets
Mile by mile until
the land opens up to
the black sea
flanking my left
At least I come to rest
With windows rolled down
I begin to listen
to the waters calling
Night after night
my blood is drawn
to this shore
I listen as if it were
the only sound
worth listening to
in this life

Running Late

He was running late and he hadn't had a chance to
call or text her to say so. She was going to be pissed
he thought. She had been telling him all week how he
needed to make sure he'd be on time today. He thought
he had it all planned out for any contingency but it turns
out to not have been the case. He was racing through the
traffic as best he could without being a complete and utter
asshole. He hated disappointing her. She was probably
fully dressed and waiting on the couch for him to arrive.
Honks and hands greeted him on this drive more often
than he cared to feel. This mad rush, would it matter at
all by the end of the night? Would it be forgiven and
forgotten by tomorrow morning? He hoped it would.
That was a future not yet living. He drove in silence
and finally arrived at his exit. It wouldn't be long now.
The mad dash of desperation, the final stretch was
now at hand. Just one more push.

The Hour Grows Late

There is nothing left in her room except for piles
of books, notebooks, and loose sheets of paper.
It looks as though a small library exploded.

I read through thoughts, one-off lines, poems,
and short stories organized into no organization.
The mind is a beautiful thing as it seeks to exist

outside of itself. Right now I am projecting my
interpretation of her reality through my lens.
One day it is possible that someone else will do

this for me and the piles of writing in my room.
That is not now. Now is time to write in these
dark spaces of night. To find some semblance of

order in a world that delights in chaos as much
as organization.

Brotherhood of the Black Moon

He cruised north on Vista Del Mar with the Pacific
flanking his left side. Wind tousled his hair. The music
was off. All he could hear was the waves on the beach
and the tires over the asphalt.

As he neared his destination an airplane flew overhead
from the nearby airport. Briefly, he looked over and saw
its form buried in the dark skies. He slowed and pulled
over as he came to a stop.

In rapid succession, the headlights and engine were killed.
A car sped past. He could feel it's velocity through the
sudden shudder of the car. The lights of oncoming traffic
blinked into the darkness and barreled close and away.

There was no reason for him to be there this late. He didn't
want to be home. There was nothing in his room and at
least here he could listen to the waves and let his mind
forget about itself for a few moments.

His phone buzzed and the screen lit up. It was a text.
"At the Black Moon having a drink. Drop by."
He wrote, "Sure. Be there in 15." He turned the key
in the ignition only enough to turn on the stereo.

A loud cymbal crash followed by rumbling toms
and the clattering of percussion beating through the
speakers. From the first note he knew it was "A Night In
Tunisia" by Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers.

He turned the key and the engine awoke. There were
no cars in either direction. A quick u-turn over the
solid double yellow lines and he was headed south
towards the Black Moon.

He needed the company. He needed the drink.
What a day. What a week. Wayne Shorter's sax
cut through the wind as the two sounds intermingled
to create a new voice.

What kind of night would it become? It didn't matter.
How could it? Eventually he lost track of the waves,
the road, as though nothing but he and that song existed.
His company was anticipated. He hurtled forward

until the mild suburban facade of the area showed
it's face again, and when it did, how he longed to rip
the skin from it. At last, the Black Moon came into
view. There was nothing to be won or lost.

All Human

It is late and I am
awake
           thinking of all 

the greats
and their problems

I pour a drink
It's my second one

It's after midnight
I am no great

I am troubled
as all humans are

both great
and unalike

Recovery

My mind will not sleep

so I indulge it this evening

as we stay up together

listening to the night

    steady sounds beneathe 

    the tips of my fingers

caked sweat dried 

on my skin from 

    another time

 

    another place

Ending The Night

I am awake because I am tired
and cannot sleep.
The neighbors across the way
are as loud at 2 a.m. as at 10 p.m.

When I fall asleep I am good
at remaining undisturbed through
whatever turbulence the night brings.
I have not undone the laces on my shoes,

my bedclothes rest on top of my sheets.
When I am in bed I will listen to the sounds
outside my window, the breath from my lungs,
the steady sound of my internal metronome.