Pere Lachaise

I bought grapes and

yellow dates

on Wednesdays.

At half past three I'd meet

Jim Morrison.

For four months

I'd pass Gertrude Stein

and Oscar Wilde

underneath

black marble and French saints.

147 communards

are hush

throughout the cemeteries

labyrinth

like bats that hang in silence.

School children

play I spy

as I sneak through

stone hatchways

and potted wildflowers.

Their owl-like gazes

leap past me

to angels gilded in green

crag.

Morrison meets 

me in the sixth division

with star-eyed

beatniks

burning lighter fuel.

They toss half-burned

cigarettes

over a square

grave that's branded in 

Greek.

"KATA TON AIMONA EAYTOY"

Is plated beneath

James Douglas Morrison.

"True to His Own Spirit"

decodes itself

in black ash

near visitors who

lament,

smoke,

and snap photographs.

Empty whiskey,

plastic daisies,

Twinkies,

dusted concert stubs,

cover his catacomb

like the warmth

he couldn't refuse.

Space Near Suburbia

Piles of space junk fall

like snowflakes

or astronauts that bounce like rubber balls

on empty streets.

I watch the mailman

dressed in grey, 

who matches the sky,

and hands bills 

to John Q in a red tie.

he stuffs envelopes

into dark homes

like sour milk in a faulty refrigerator

that has forgotten how to keep

chop meat red.

Picket fences move

when the seasons change

through tall grass 

that hides pesticides

that crawl like spiders.

Neighbors

play fetch with my dog that won't bark

but stares at the mailman

and drools liquid

grass.

Lambent-edged globes move around houses

while families

sip ice-tea

in clouds that look

like stuffed animals.

The man in grey moves

as he enters dead-ends without

an intention.

I wait for a letter 

with my name

in the corner,

carried by the man

I'll never know.