Night winds howled 
through slick canyon walls
blowing sweet dreams 
from sleepless denizens 
to someplace beyond 
opium dens of Paris,
dark Bangkok brothels, 
ashrams of India,
underground jazz bars 
of Kerouac’s San Francisco . . . 
to a far away ancient land 
where grey eyed Athena lives
with her sacred horned owl.

I met my illusion today for coffee.
The barista’s illusion was friends with my illusion.
Our illusions introduced the barista and me.
I bought my illusion a latte.
She thanked me.
We all talked over coffee catching up on past illusions.
The barista took my hand.
She told me she loved me.
The clock on the wall melted into time. 
My head exploded in light.
When I awoke my illusion was gone.
The barista went with me to Barstow.
We live alone in the desert.

The woman in black stood
in her raven hair, red lips shining,
her large black purse, 
black glasses and boots.

The woman in black waited
thirty seven minutes 
knowing not what for,
never smiling, only staring.

The woman in black stood
silent by the dead flowers
this day after the 
Hunter’s Moon.

The woman in black apathetic
to a passing world
in clear blue noon sun passing 
between Uranus and time.

The woman on black cried
no lonely regretful tear 
or sad memoir drama
no one would write.

The woman in black walked 
into a black Venus night
when the moon refused to shine,
disappearing into silence.

The woman in black pervades
my mind troubled now forever,
and I fell in love with her,
and I disappeared with her
into that black silence.