before me sit a cup of coffee and a glass of wine. the coffee has gone cold, and the wine has decanted overnight. bottle printed MATEUS; the a, the e, the u have been Sharpied over with other letters. it is a dry rose, Portuguese. it is my bottle. i can call it whatever i wish.

the point of this all this, some wise old man told me long ago the best decisions are made twice.

old men are full of all kinds of good stuff. they have stories to tell. i hope to keep listening.

tell me your brotherhood, built like a stone castle and brought to its knees with but a feather of words. your wars never end, the walls just get higher so you may each continue to proclaim yourself king. these battles are enacted on a board you see as black and white, only finding yourself in danger when checked, four moves from mate. your queen plays from a position of power but these pawns can be sacrificed without blinking an eye, and every great match will eventually end in bloodshed.

tell me of the party i was not invited to, but crashed anyway. tell me each guest was more beautiful than the next. tell me of olympian wars over wives, and warn me of gift horses.

steal me an apple, golden delicious, and these hands will bake you a pie. (kitchen magic is nothing but butter and a secret or two and these recipes are not to be shared.) i will not have a slice right away, a skinny chef knows which apples are meant to be eaten and which should be left alone.

tell me more of the road trip, your endless dusty plains and drugstores. tell me of struggling with addiction, you hopeless junky. flow me your words in a gravelly voice flavored with smoke and desire. was it you in the shaman's tent, drinking the tea of the gods? or did i dream that one as well?

tell me of the vanity that runs through your veins, then show me the cocky bastard is bullshit.

you told me of a great book being planned. all of the tales told, in our aftermath, after the world ends and we are left with nothing but ghosts. would i want to help, you asked, would i like to write a chapter.

the coffee says yes. the wine says yes.

consider it writ.

There are goblets and plates on her shelves
ancient artifacts and representative pieces
she has history all around her, but

she is with me
in a manner not refined

and though she says she is neoVictorian
her kisses are complicated
and her movements~ byzantine

On such occasions
she is no renaissance woman,
hers is a one track mind

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