Death of a Muse

how did we let you down, Dolores
you poured your heart out

song after song
did we consume too much

or all of you, so much
you had nothing left, but a broken spine

to carry you
from venue to venue

I never got to tell you
you already became an angel

the one whispering in my ear
when I’d hit bottom

your voice found my soul
your banshee wails

a lament for my pain
on your wings, I was lifted

back to life
the gift, now re-gifted

alone in a hotel room, gone
thank you, Dolores

for whispering, that I might hear
all those years ago

you told me
I had more living to do


After eight days
In a foreign land
One begins to believe
Every bad driver endured
On a narrow winding road
Is American

Or a midday pint is proper
Or Guinness
Would do just fine

Rain becomes fair play
And sun, dislodges from the sky
As the strangeness
Of stranger evaporates
With the forward lurching
Of time


We sleep, compressed

between skin, within

someone else’s bed

laying brains on foreign pillows

denting batting

with our hard shell heads.

Passports become artifacts

become relics, totem fetishes

of home

as we seek peak experience

to share

lifting a slim veil, understanding

what it means to be.