Monday, December 31, 2007

Midnight Blues, Eric Bachman and Singleton, 2007

the love child of day and night
the great yes~no~maybe,
imploring us:

"Don't look back"

Born in the arcane math
of 24 turned back to zero,
all clean slates filled
with pink love marks,
one more X traced on
skin by waiting hands
we know in the dark.

patron hour
of witches
and jokers
drawing the line in black~magic
stallion of seduction and strength
running time's marathon
the mother of all fevers
the endless

as the old fire light fades,
a brand new gift of 365
sunsets and rises~
the sacred mysteries
the soft~lipped silent passing
caress of our greatest

fizzing and
running over
spilling enchantments
like the gifts of a wise Magi
from the mystic east,

"This is the one and only now,
the endless this moment,
ecstasy reborn between
yesterday and tomorrow"

As Midnight falls upon us,
making everything old
everything beloved
to begin yet again...
glasses filled with
Midnight love on the rocks
a Second Chance Martini...
spilling over
in hopes that no acquaintance will
be forgotten,
and all sins began in such sweet

Friday, December 28, 2007

Pixie Hat, Eric Bachman and Singleton, 2007

Sweeping out the front door
yesterday dressed,
on a faerie's

and sunned.

I'm off to gather
powdered gold--
to weave a
pixie hat...

* * *

She sweeps
out the front door--

to gather
her magic,
and see what
the tide brings...

An angel
on her shoulder.

Her heart
on greensleeves.

A devil
smiles in the details.

Waiting to see
how her pixie hat turns out.

Waiting for the moment
when all will be said,
and yet there's still
a little bit left undone.

Monday, December 24, 2007

The Crisscrossed Circle, Eric Bachman, Singleton and Maithri, 2007

It reads the same
inside out and backwards
in the mirror
in the sunlight
in the aftermath of falling stars,
in my soul
where it always was,
will be.

The curve of love,
the beginning,
the middle,
the neverending
of a circle...

And the light
on a day
that even God
was a good one...

May we all be blessed....

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Tightwire, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

I tiptoe
on the highwire....
no net,
no stopping now,
and fall....

ten thousand stories,
punchlines not yet told
and land in the net,
a butterfly jolted,
kicking barefooted on the wild trapeeze....

And you're there,
on the wire,
halfway to my dungeon in the sky,
and daring the ground...
"join us,
break us,
knock us the hell out of here"...

and we laugh
because our eyes never leave
the beautiful,broken,
colored, cracked
of our very own touch,
suspended in nowhere,
half way to there....

I step
you step,
You reach
I reach,
I fall
You fall,
And the crowd wooshes and roars,
Catastrophe is what they paid for
with ooooohs and ahhhhhhs and
two nickel tickets.....

and we make it every time....

Thursday, December 6, 2007

In This Way of Love

Eric Bachman and Singleton, 2007

Butterfly of gold,
San Marina's own

She's so very free...

Always has been,
Always will be.

Wings stretched--
resting in a fold

she'll never fly

and will always
float with me.

Does she remember the dream...
the discovery that she made?
mermaids and
are one and all the
one for the sky
one for the sea

one in a heart's
midnight blue dream

"In this way of love is the balance kept"

they say that
butterflies only
live for a day
or the moment
and I can't
believe this is true
and mermaids
live forever
in the shadows
and the deep--
I can't believe this is true
so I'm sure they take turns
trading underwater dunes
for summer wind

"in this way of love is the balance kept"

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

She tells stories.....


Her face was wet,
chilled, but not cold
and I succumbed...
into her soul,
her innermost heat,
a fire that even
the rains of November
couldn't completely

Did I ever tell you
I was in love with snow?
dimestore flocking
quilt batting
fortune telling
And the cold shock
of drowning
a bathtub full
a hillside high
a ditch on the side of the road
of white
forever tumbling from overstuffed
"I can't believe I ate this much!"
"Gotta unbuckle my five oh one"

Her face was wet
so was mine
her hair
my hair
her clothes
my clothes
and cold
in the November air
and she prattled
cheeks five o'clock pink,
fishtelling the story I knew by heart

and how I never forgave
the skies
for teasing me
with plump white wine
goosefeathers falling
never recorded before,
cant be happening!,
and then
wrecking my dream
in the morning?

her face was wet
and so was mine,
and we laughed
at everything:
and brown eyes;
the soul of the earth
with come hither to lines....

it was my only one night stand.....

her face was wet
and so was mine
and in the cold
November nightness
played snow angels on the hill
and laughed at
the stories
behind us...

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

The Little Things

Little dead bird
at my feet.


I touch her
with one toe

and die inside
a little more.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

The Waiting Game--Eric Bachman and Singleton, '07

You’ve got the five o’clock blues
and a ten spot in your pocket--
There's no place like home
after a little hell on Monday.
(no matter where home is)

Meatloaf and cold potatoes,
callin’ your name out loud,
the paycheck's spent and
the fridgadair’s humming;
And hollow
And empty.

Happy hour is three days off
Says the sign, the schedule
the Monday morning cue card.

The parking lot's all lit up,
the double doors flap
wide open,
and open again...

and that’s really all you need....

Five o'clock and an open invite;
all we're waiting on is you.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Pretty Little Ending--Eric Bachman and Singleton, '07

A pretty little ending,
all wrapped up tight;
sugar-coated candies
in a movie theatre box.

The credits roll by--
The End spelled out
in unmistakable font,
everyone's going home.

Confetti dust and rays
of a lost sun flickering,
floating in bright chaos,
their shadows play tag
on a dirty silver screen--
And suddenly I remember...

It wasn't all that great;
I just wanted it to be.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

Eyes that Sing, Eric Bachman 2007

I may not see you there
looking through the leaves,
but your soul sings a song
that ripples true and rings
across the body of time
a piano played by heart
a hundred notes and lines.

Every verse you know
was learned so long ago.
And all the songs you sing
are from a siren's dream.
Echoing the blue sky blues
autumnal virgin forest scene
across the body of time.

Your song gives you away
behind the thickest leaves.

Your eyes give you away
the body of time, a dream.

Your heart may be alone--
I listen for it's wild call.

Your eyes they sing
a song of midnight lights,

Dancing through the distance
the burnt gold leaves of fall.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

On The Floor, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

Watching the bold clock face
ticking down the brick wall,
tocking sepia lyrics




and maybe


Misfit makeshift couples--
Strangers two hours before
Three beers later
(who's counting?)
Folding like pages into
gray night moths
enveloped against, into, onto
each other by moonshine…
for a Friday night love story.
(“Hey, what's your name, again?”)

But not us,
we laughed at the clock….
pick pocketing
Our last lines

We clinked! to the last call
and all that could’ve been
if we had risen to the occasion…..

To one last spin
one last dance
one last drink
the last of many tonight

And tomorrow,
we'll do it all one more time...
one more spin
one more sigil scribbled
on the back door stairwell

Everything is perfect
everything will burn
every night without end
when you're the Silver moths
in the black cantina...

Friday, November 2, 2007

Behind The Powder Room Door, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

All lined up like perfect flowers
with their pink painted faces
moulin rouge cheeks,
little hens
in the ladies room
through antique teeth,
veneered words
splinter off their tongues...

"So nice to see you"...

Even fairy tales
have cardboard creeps
climbing through the pages,

And she believes in fairy tales,
so she dusts them off daily
with feather words and gloss,
billowing sweet cotton candy,
pink on their blue cheeks

They prattle as she prances
out the door...

"Isn't she a doll?"...


you have to fix the endings.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

She curtsies and beckons
to the highway rollers,
the evening strollers,
the "I just left my wife
this morning"ers.

With her eyes wide open,
they believe....
do they ever believe,
her eyes, burning
reflecting their desire...

Everything around her
drowning in the want
to bathe in her love.

A tear like a diamond--
rough and in perfect season and tune;
falling like a stone from above.

She told them a dime
a beer
a skate
a stroll
or stone-skip throw
is all it will take
to win a true heart.

Told them with piercing eyes
to step right up if they think
they have what it takes,
a quarter for the jukebox...
your dime,
my time--
and to believe that
24 hours is enough...

For anything.

Because she told them so....

Told them how to win a night
at the Paradise South.

Told them almost everything
keeping dreams for herself,
a shadow walking with her
the only friend who knows.

Forever is just a dream,
enchantment of the night--
her heart's true name
scribbled on a timeless picture
in her gilded locket for eyes only.

She bows with royal flourish,
takes the floor, fading into smoke;
lights high above beaming down
like a sun never shone on earth.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Nickel Drafts, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

Backs to the band
we drifted down--
drafted, up--
(clouds have nothing on us)

Penned a paperback book
on Budwieser napkins
aces high,
a house of cards
between us.

"Shhhhhh.... "

"No talking"


Words penciled
between strangers
leg to leg
shoulder to shoulder
tall tales, short stories
spun right there
at the bar.

I only heard
your voice
in a smile,
as we ran
across the street
let them fly

White butterflies
wooshed by traffic,
with bottle ring

This word
and that word

the story out of order

And that's the way it's supposed to be...

Friday, October 26, 2007

The Show, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

"Like water fits a mermaid"

A taffeta gown
in phospherescent teal
dancing on it's own
and beaded
and fated
by the seamless seamtress
of the sea.

From the watchtower
she's dripping in
frothy hemlines
moving victorian lace
sea foam splash
smile sigh
eight miles high
and deep.

The sun pulls the curtains
endless encore
the lights go on and off
and she's swathed in tie-dyed
and butterfly wings
but for her soul
a crystaline buoy
tethered to the shore--

The show must go on...

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Red Glow of Pardise South, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

Neon lights burning:
Red hot and electric
they never close down
fall down, burn out
they never do lie
except to the city;
red glare, she cries.

The neon lights click
on and on, clinking
even with the dark
thinking, tinking
on abandoned streets
of the long after hour
craze and shuffle home

Red lights glaring like
moonlight and bloodstone
in the see-through rays
of the old rising sun,
burning her face bronze
her lunch-time squint;

(Don't frown--
you'll get wrinkles)

The neon lights buzz
on through the night.

The neon lights lie
to the city so wide
as the jukebox dies
it lies in plain sight.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

An Every-Night Cinderella, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

I'm not alone...

As long as the wind
will talk to me,
I hear your voice

I'm listening...

The wind always
has a story to tell....

She whispers
in the night,
to the moon,
frolicks in the sun

But she listens,
as she gales,
tumbling litter
winter leaves
baby butterflies

I hear the sounds
of her bright voice
echo; alive

Sometimes I hear her

In the night,
there are secrets
and she knows
all of them.

But if one knows
to listen well
to her breathy voice
and feel her caress
and her soft kisses
on their face
will remain hidden

will stop her
from becoming one,
from becoming a kite
of stardust and light;
blue and purple
and red and white
flying from the palm
of her invisible hand

And then she'll do
what the wind
always does,
she'll unravel
the kite string
one loop
one inch
one beer
one line
at a time
and set it free
a new constellation

One more brand new
in her midnight sky.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Atomic Moon, Singleton 2007

Keys on the floorboard,
fingers digging past
lost cigarette butts,
McDonald's reciepts,
dashboard buttons fallen
in the dark
to find them,
Two keys to the car,
one to the house,
one to the Storage Shed where
memories are buried for ninety-nine
dollars a month,
one to the post office box
three cities ago,
just to crank the damned engine
in the cold and
barrel out,
blonde hippie chic
under the
Steven Kingish,
laughing moon....

And drive here.
Where pink ladies paid $7.95 an hour
drape her in Este Lauder perfumes
and dripping vintage beads,
bathe her in bargain basement

She slides through the
swinging doors,
keys clanging
on the bars of
the old pocketbook
bouncing off her hip,
into the blackened parking lot....


Friday, October 19, 2007

Open, Singleton 2007

Three pairs of blues
inside out and wadded
crumpled at the bedfloor
Eight left shoes
different heights
for different faces
heaped in the corner
and I'm ready to go...
dressed in tried and trues
and that damned
concrete block
I'm growing quite
accustomed to.

The barstool
six from the right
on wooden knees
a black plethera
that whispers
"be mine...
when you're
when you've had
your fill
of them.....

And I'm off....
Fridays are for dancin'.....

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Mocha Morning, Singleton 2007

Last call forgot us
they couldn't find
our hands raised
for roll call
or find our shadows
on the floor
I was in the ladie's room
talking to my other smile
and you were bangin'
on the cigarette machine
playing pachinko with
our last dimes for
a pack of anything
pall malls
bubblegum rings
or fortunes....
anything that would
happily land at your feet

And so we missed it,
another round
downtown at the cornerbar
and in the wee hours,
the free hours
we took the party home
to dance in the kitchen
and drink Michelobs left
lying on their sides in the
vegetable bin,
we did that the night before....
and there was only bologna there
and some cheese

So I brewed coffee and
when you went to fetch the cream
you find the henna
in the karmic red tubes
chilled and ready

We pretended it came in every color
the color of my hair on top
and painted mocha colored cobwebs
up and down our calves
and laughed....

I read the directions this
sipping cold black coffee....
and crossing my legs,

It says in perfect foreign script.....
"does not wash off with soap and water"

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

The Perfect Corner, Eric Bachman 2007

The perfect corner bar,
a perfect place to sit back
to kick our feet up
and loose the shoes,
listening to voodoo sing
it's charms and invocations
from an electric guitar amp.

The perfect circle--
hands held with strangers
as the bright lights dim,
electric freedom singing
while everyone watches
the stage for her next trick
her next dance, next song.

Perfect circle, perfect corner
perfect burnished wood
perfect cigarrette burns
perfect drinks, perfect laughs
everything was like that;
real and a little impossible,
only a dream--in your face.

Last call is light years
into the future's haze.

Open the door and look out
at the new-born universe.

In the windows by the corner
an open sign glows--perfect.

Non-stop neon lights burn.
and the sunrise only means
it's a new morning.

Will work for beer, Singleton 2007

He spins stories on the sidewalk
and the five o'clockers gather round
hushed from their rush and tickertapes
by his words,

they linger and loiter and loot
his cache
parading in
and pantyhouse
and breaktimes
to their lives
in make believe
and verytales

and she draws a circle in pastels
around his workaholic words
and the shady people grazing him
but noone notices
the colors
she's painting

just the barefeet
dancing through
the stories
leaving chalky footprints
on the sidewalk
and the way
she collects
his dimes

Little Black Book, Eric Bachman 2007

Pages blur
faces turn
some time
no money.

on a dime.

Air crackles with life-lightning
smokey air conditioned breeze,
out of the dark we are all born.

and pages
with stars:
one or two
three, four
and five.

Few could hold your candle,
none could match your style--
ten, eleven, twenty-four-seven.

A page in
the book
torn out
flying on
cool breeze.

Butterflys drink from the flowers,
sometimes, shot glasses, bottles;
always to their light heart's content.

One more page torn from the book
forever are the stars there yours
shining like rain in a city street lamp

casting shadows
on this
little black book
of mine.

Empty Bar, Singleton 2007

spraypainted black
by fingernails
golden hair
spider veined by the sun
the black egg

Jukebox humming
clanging banging
ghosts of vinyls
but nothings
digital sounds
masters recreated
it's not the same

And I spin on the black
leather seat
in a circle
eyes closed
arms out
waiting to
pin the tale on the donkey
or the next drunken
fool who makes
an ass of

and for you...
jeweled shot warming,
I wait for you...