he hides his wings

we sat on the couch
beneath an original bukowski painting
beside a bronze bust of the dirty man
smoking legal chap books
listening to hot water music
drinking ancient scotch
discussing
the proximity
of kentucky to tennessee

poetry bombs
fell from the sky
as the king revealed his affliction

a rareness we share

one we have both passed on to our sons
our naivete
vulnerabilities
mechanical worlds
tin voices
the weight of meaningless gold

we wept into words
remembering
missing lovers
fathers and librarians

thai food
hugs
offers of shelter and safe harbor
given with
a father’s worried come-home-soon eyes

as we walked onto the patio
to say goodnight to the hollywood sign
and tuck in
the xenias and tomatoes

you cut your hand

wrote your words with
blood red

inside the bible
you had long ago given me

“All criminals are outlaws, but not all outlaws are criminals.”

that’s when i realized
you were the most beautiful thing
about california