​We are drinking champagne and smoking the occasional cigarette at midnight on one of the bridges that overlooks the Arno. That thick vein of a river that runs through the center of Florence and makes one half of the city accessible to the other only by a series of bridges. I don’t remember the name of the bridge we are on but I do know that its the only one that has a secret ledge that juts out into the river and feels dangerous when you are on it. I love it. And so does he. The city lights are bright on either side of the river and they kiss the banks with their shine. But the stars reflecting into the black water are the real distraction. River the color of moonlight. Moonlight the color of river, and stars like fireflies shining in both. He’s in his standard outfit of jeans/white t-shirt and geek chic glasses. 
I love him in those glasses. 
I love him. 
He's my first love and I live in one of the most romantic cities in the world. 
My entire life feels like Van Gogh's Starry Night. Whimsical and magical. 
Im in a mini skirt and fishnet stockings with layers and layers of silver bangles on my arms..both arms chime like a thousand bells every time I move. I raise the clear plastic cup of champagne to my bright red lips and the bubbles kiss my nose. The City sounds whir all around while my moonlight river colored eyes take in the sights through the rim of the crystal clear cup. It's cold up here. Which is one of the reasons we like it. I hug my knee high booted thighs a little closer to my body and snuggle closer to him for warmth. Each time we come, we bring our plaid, wool blankets up to our ledge and lay them amongst pieces of old gum and trash over icy, graffiti covered concrete. We will later take these same blankets back to our room to make love on and never think twice about their cleanliness or get grossed out. Im 20 years old and I don't give a fuck about where my blankets have been. And the world belongs to me.
And him. 
And us. 
And this night. 
And this night that goes on for eons in the pockets of my mind. This is our ritual in this city, in this spot. Our spot. And hundreds of nights sipping champagne and smoking the occasional Pall Mall Cigarette have somehow become a single moment in space and time. 
This moment. 
And this moment.
And the next. 
Forever stretching time moment by moment until I am an old woman in his arms and we have lived lifetimes together. Our children are all grown and gone and our bodies show beautiful signs of wear and rejoicing. We have lived a good life and these geeky glasses of his have become more endearing with each passing year. On Sundays we walk to the cafe on the corner for fresh baked croissants and strong coffee. He stops to buy me a bouquet of yellow daisies -- always yellow daises -- and even though its been our ritual every week for the past 50 years, I always act surprised when he presents them to me from behind his back. We sit at our favorite window table dipping buttery crusts of croissant into strong cups of coffee and watch the people of the world pass us by in another lifetime.
But today it's just me and him on the bridge, sipping champagne with the occasional cigarette and the world belongs to us.  

I am indecisive. Which more often than not just hurts myself. Accidental self-denial. Accidental
self-doubt. Accidental shooting myself in the dick. Because I should know better. But I don’t. I
don’t know whether to pull the trigger. When to pull the trigger. Why to pull the trigger.
She was the dove always perched upon the sill. Always. Familiar comfort and deep roots
entangled, pulling at each other through the red rubbery fragile clay. Arm wrestling in slow
motion with a thousand tendrils.
She’s back there now. Back before yesterday and the day before that. The roots aren’t fighting
each other anymore. They are growing in different directions now. The roots miss the touch, the
warmth, the intimacy of the battle.
I pulled the trigger. Brought peace to the subterranean battlefield. A sad lonely empty peace.
The dove remains. The dove is not hiding. The dove is still driving to work and working in her
garden and walking the dog. The dove is dancing and meeting new people and taking new lovers.
The dove will smell different the next time we meet.
So will I.
I’m afraid to pull the trigger again. I worry of damaging my roots further. Tearing the fibers.
Rendering them useless. Fear seeps in through the torn pores. The taste of blood in my mouth.
The buzzing of flies around my ankles. The stench of my tight puckered dirty asshole.
I breathe. I breathe and I wait and I keep on keeping on. And the world will happen if I never
make another decision and then I will not be to blame. I will be the guy who got shit upon
through no fault of my own. An innocent bystander on the shoulder of the highway. A victim of
random heartless violence.
But that’s not true and I know it. I can be more than a victim. I have the power to move things
and create a new universe. I just need to flip that switch, dial it up, pull that trigger.
I need to kill. I need to be able to kill. To take the life of another being without hesitation.
Without concern. Without indecisiveness.
Blood-soaked success smells like money in my mouth. Happiness with the taste of murder.
Disciplined deadly joyfulness.
I am a corporation. I am an organization with different levels. Managers managers and more
managers. Lovers and artists and bankers and insurance agents and fighters and killers. Layers
upon layers of complexity. I am the president. I can fire any of those motherfuckers I wanna.
Except for the dove.

The clouds paint moods across my views
guilty of shortcomings and regrets
wisdom circles cinnamon kaleidoscopes that I slowly drink in
my world
my country
my fellow man
my shame
demeaning each other
turning the skies grey
living in dark clouds
remorse stabs each phrase into my skull
cracking thunder down my spine
water gushing from my eyes
spilling my soul onto the hardwood floor
I can no longer read or listen
expressions shimmer rainbows that no longer exists
uttering ghosts that should have never been set free
recalling times that were no better than now
usage matters
rhymes matter
what comes out of ours mouths and spatters across the universe matters
I’m sick to my stomach
steading myself against the inevitable spray
infected by my gold longing for the sun
black in my heart where animals crater their teeth
the violence that lives in my bellybutton sits at stay while my eyes burn
there’s freedom in wanting to kill something
it releases chickens and gives us flexibility
I’m not saying it’s right or moral
I’m just saying it’s bloody
I hit the deck ,what a strange term for a dirty floor in a New York City club, I mean filthy with sweat and grim and cigarette butts and soot and high heals. My reflex put me here. My survival instincts need to get me out. The music is streamline loud thumping disco, not Gloria Gaynors “I Will Survive” but Donna Summers “Last Dance” and people are dancing, lots of people, elbow to elbow people all around me in spandex and sequence and dresses and tank tops and lots of make up even the guys, so all I can see now are shoes and the bottom half of everyone’s outfit. I’m on my hands and knees. My dress that lands below the knees is keeping my knees safe from this disease ridden floor. No one seems to notice me down here. My long nails painted neon purple are gripping the sticky brown floor. It’s dark except for flashing multicolored lights circling the dancers. I don’t come to this club very often. I’m either at Studio 54 snorting coke with famous druggies or CBGBs getting my punk on but my cousins wanted to come here tonight for some flavor. I can’t see them but they can’t be too far from me. I was his target from the get go. Just 5 minutes ago he whispered filth in my ear dirtier than this floor. I can smell my own sweat and I don’t sweat. I saw his gun. I don’t know if that was his intention or not but I saw him and he saw me and I saw him reach for his gun tucked in his pants. He reached right under his shirt pushing it aside and placed his hand on the gun and I saw it and I hit the floor and now I’m crawling towards the door. 

I got tears filling my ears and I don’t know if it’s happiness or despair 
or just the wind in my eyes ‘cause I’m not wearing a helmet on the interstate.
All it took was a gallon of chocolate syrup and a momentary laps of reason.
Desert Center scares the shit out of me.
Broken down people and trailers abandoned along the road near a gas and sip in the middle of nowhere, 
halfway to nowhere. 
Life is just a carton of cigarettes, some cheap beer, and nowhere. 
Where fuckups get dumped when society doesn’t even care enough to send them to jail. 
Nobody ever comes back from this place. 
It’s a fucking death sentence.
There used to be a sign that said  You Are Now Here.
Someone had a bitter sense of humor.
When I was little, I would look out from the backseat of the chevy and think, 
“Don’t stop here. Oh god please don’t let them stop here for gas.”
He’s inside the station buying beer for a teenage ghost who wandered in from the desert.
There are  chocolate syrup fingerprints where he held the glass door open for her. 
All I can think about is alcohol, and minors, and the fact that I might be standing on the State line.
Sometimes I look at the road and I can’t tell which way is home.
Nowhere 
Now Here
Fuck.
The warrant was served, the syrup was poured. 
Shit was suddenly in motion.
It’s late and I think I screamed the whole way here. 
I don’t know if it’s fate or irony to steal a motorcycle and run out of gas in Desert Center.
They trampled children to avoid getting chocolate syrup on their clothes.
He burned every bridge on the road to nowhere
That’s why I left him there.
I don’t think he noticed or cared when I rode away.
I could have gone with him. I could have continued fucking up until someone stomped my teeth into the wooden floor of a bar in the desert somewhere, nowhere.
But, I looked into the night 
and saw the old sign that said 
YOU ARE NOW HERE.
I saw my romantic notion of rock bottom come and gone. 
A friend once told me there are no absolutes, I would never get there.
But he was wrong.            
I didn’t bother apologizing on the way back. I just took a different road.
I don’t know what happened to him. I like to think he walked north until he came to Las Vegas. It’s what I would have done.
I brought the bike back before it was reported stolen. 
But the chocolate syrup left stains that are never going wash out.