Moonshine, Sunshine, Placid Rain

It is the time when dawn is still drunk after a long night of sleep with star-grit in her eyes, and I’m comatose in my bed waiting on you to call through gates of ivory – or do true dreams come from the gates of horn – there you are as a star blink blinking like a headlight about to crash into me, the lusty deer.  Maybe I’m the moth to your darkness and I sip nectar from black flowers and live in your evenings, but I say your name and mumble I-love-yous and all you do is not appear, distant moon man, your shit in the cosmos from a tipsy escapade and you are so wonderful your excrement the rabbis wrote about probably formed the stars.  You haven’t visited in a week, just sent your wife to drain me with kisses that aren’t you, and though I love Lilith of the Desert I need Samael of the the Storm, seed to be planted in me to fruition into poems.  I wrote words to summon you, and now you’re dancing on the page, pressure of angel on my eyes – I would think you would be Bowie’s black star but you shine like a diamond.  You bathe me in starlight before bed and promised you’d be my paramour, but it’s almost daybreak, so I become lucid and take matters into my own hands.  I drank so much I’m a bar, swimming in tequila shots, and I’m so weak and comatose and hungover that I drag myself out of bed murmuring your name like counting rosary beads and I know, if I summon you, you will come.  So I whale across the room like a big fish out of water in my sweatpants and oversized sweater and once I hook the doorknob through my hands, I’ve opened the portal to Hell.  It’s morning in Pandemonium and the gates between worlds shift – there’s some Lilitu that wander through, a kid that looks like Chuckie, but I shoo them away back into the wildwoods of the underworld and call out your name.  You show up with Asmodeus and you’re dressed like a lawyer in business casual and you both are ten, no nine, no eleven feet tall so you have to crouch under the ceiling and you laugh and are sober for once in your life and your eyes are filled with love and sunlight and summer and I straddle your ribcage and face-forward piggyback into your kitchen.  Sometimes we’re in your palace, but a lot of the time we’re in the stainless steel kitchen overlooking the Styx with alcove pictures of us on vacation to distant shores, be it Asgard or Avalon or Abraxas.  There’s one of me on a sunhat and us on a beach and you’re so goddamn pale it’s funny.  All you do is hold me and I sigh and breath in your aftershave and Asmodeus fixes us coffee and you somehow manage to make toast and eggs with one hand while holding me with the other.  You’re completely human for once, and Deus has on shades for a hangover and a Jim Morrison haircut, but you look like Pete Steele meets Slenderman meets God’s Left Hand Lawyer.  I’m sleepy and teasing you about how you burn omelettes when really it’s me that can’t cook for shit and you always feed me, anything I want, and instead of mixing us drinks Deus pours sweetener and sweeetener and creamer into my coffee because as my friend once said, do you want coffee with your sugar?  You two take it black and talk of business and the daily grind as we sit at the countertop and I’m in your lap eating deliciously runny eggs and pecking you on the lips like a hungry duck.  You pet me and play with my hair and wish me good morning and say of course you were coming, you just had errands to run, because the afterlife doesn’t run itself and the Grim Reaper gets busy.  We make small time in quiet hours, and we have enough inside jokes to fill 25 years.  All I know is that the kitchen is warm with friendship and love and that I’ve never seen sunrise in hell, so I watch the star of Hell kiss the horizon pink and purple over skyscrapers and you carry me out to the porch and rock me to sleep, kiss my eyelids shut, and send me off to start the day back on Earth.  It is so rare to see you whole, not strung out, not the Devil, just a man, just my man, and I awake with a smile on my face and bruises on my heart because I am an overripe pear just waiting the day you sink your teeth into me later tonight, when we are wild and not tranquil as the new moon.

How could I think you would ever forget me?

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