A Ghost of a Smile Where are you, in this mess I'm in- the masks that crowd around the dead-leaved doorway, chanting hymns seems if they could sense, the hollow chimney detached from the warmth of your fire placing. Where are you, in this mess I'm in- I miss the fights, the fists broken bottles, glass shattering window s talk ghostly images. Thoughtless-love, suicide notes, drinking vintage, I especially miss the sex, sacrificing rules and regulations, when we'd engage in the garage next to the garbage can and blue bin, on those old, retired tires that served as a rubber bed, some rolled. Away, with a leather jacket and luggage, the green neon liquid lamp to guide your way as your ash phoenix tattooed: MR. MOJORISEN on your chest just above your bruise-purple nipple, take its wings and soars. She rides again with her chrome-frame horse, Harley- decaled with a flaming arrow, she rides with her Gibson guitar posted to her back looking to hook a bass fish, to her string picking sad and solo acoustic rhythms at the nightclubs. Why haven't you called, while I sit licking lowliness, why not a simple, your ok letter while I sit sipping my schnapps'. A brisk cold room and warm numb veins, the faces of death knocking at my door have left me, alone falling asleep.