Ever wish to return, to see them again,
leave them a kiss, saying don’t change?
Now I need protection from the state bird,

the loon; we share the same space
inhabiting one another. Juxtaposing my wings
for his, it isn’t easy. Black box memoir

after falling for the confessions of pol-pot.
What is trivial pursuit? Dead man unwilling to share
his paintings with a secret love? So she goes

into a landscape, unaware he is following her
in a fog within a gilded frame. awash in blue
with wilted parasols, paralysis. (He painted this

on a perfect white space, destroying it willfully.)
This is Tangletown: knowing that there are a million
souls, like mobile sculptures, replaceable.

Those unrelenting in the pursuit of creating,
mesmerizing the unsuspecting into any love poem,
or lack of it, afraid you’ll laugh me

down a beaten path where cats lie hissing,
obsessed with their privates,
where the slightest mew resembles death.

So begins the courtship with an unwritten book,
this silence with wings- lines streaming tears, becoming Art
In a kiss or residue; which is Tangletown.