Who’s to say
What you take in first,
Her hair,
Her eyes,
Her lips…
Maybe the way she moves
Maybe it’s all very
Maybe it’s all blurred together
But it is all very real.
She’s a curved line
With mystery
She’s art
You’ll get the whole image
If you create a space
Free of editing
And conditioning
A safe place
For her to unveil herself.

Image origin (Ethan Bethune )

lettres de guerre #6

Sept 3rd

do you remember
Staying in the flat, for three days,eating pepperoni and drinking red wine?
I said this must be what a king feels like
And you laughed asking why?
And I told you about grits
And biscuits

We passed through a small town very much the same ….
The streets were empty
And the windows boarded
I couldn’t help but think about it…
It brought me a kind of surreal

I can’t do much else
Other than wish you
A happy birthday
I hope this reaches you soon.

Love, Charlie
P.s keep writing
I’m getting your letters
Every word
In time

Aug 15th lettres de guerre #5

Dearest -A

I read your letters
Don’t worry
It takes so long to get them out here
It’s a different feeling being this far out…almost difficult to believe that we are even at war…
But it is what it is…
I was thinking about
What you said about
J the other night
The world isn’t going to be this way
He’s innocent
And vulnerable
But it’s more than that
Like you said …
It’s a perspective of the world
And people
How you look at things
And interact with them

I don’t want him
To think he has to change because
Of someone picking him apart
I don’t want him to
Dismiss things
As “bad things just happen sometimes”
I want him to know
That his interaction and reaction mean something.
Especially his art.
It can go
Where a single person can’t.
Where we can’t
It’s an expression that is important

The world won’t be this way forever
Maybe there will be a day
Or a year
When we stop writing
When we stop painting
When we stop feeling
When we watch our brothers
Live in misery
Or die on their feet
And we will not be moved

But it’s not this day
Or this year
And that’s why I’m here
As long as
We look after our children
Like J,
Tomorrow won’t be that day either.

I’ll write soon
love, Charlie

Aug 12th. lettres de guerre #4

My , A
I don’t have but a few get a line in..
I’m standing here on the deck
Somewhere off the coast of the Philippines …
I can see every star.
But you’re my north
Were I able,I’d reach out and pick the one that shines for you you’re looking at and ask it to shine a little brighter and let you know …Writing you.
Im here
I saw a comet,it was pulsating and bright and then it dropped
like your neckline …
I remember you,
I remember your lips …pulling mine…
I remember your accent gentle like the water…your hair like lavender
biting my shoulder and laughing ‘Sex on heels ‘
That’s what I called you…

I would that I could
Follow that comet to the edge of the Galaxy
Spelling sensual words
Along your waist…
Burning,layer by layer..
Down your inner thighs…

jusqu’à ce que je découvre chaque langue que vous chantez dans
(until I discover each language you sing in)

This is what the water’s made me…
And I miss you…


June 17th. lettres de guerre #3

Dearest – A
I wonder if the military reads letters
Before they let them through?
I’ve always wondered that
Out here
You wouldn’t want a bad letter
But what would constitute a ‘bad’
Letter? Damned if I know….

When you’re young and just going in
You are told everything to expect and what to do
But out here….
You’re on your own
The guys
They talk a lot about their girls
About what they’re gonna do
When we get home
About fucking
Taking prostitutes in foreign cities
All the shit
But when it all comes down to the line
What you want
Is that last night back
Where I had you for a couple of hours
And we waited for morning
That’s what we want
And we want this to be over
And we’re afraid of
What this will make us
What we’re becoming
What if I can’t be that close again?

And that line isn’t the heated battle
You’re a machine in that moment
The line
Is the nightmare of midnight in hell
Black as pitch
No sound
No sight
The air still as a plate
And you have no idea what the other guy is doing ….
All you have is a pulse
And a memory

Waters is younger than me
average guy like any of us
Always waiting for a moment to write
On a piece of paper
But he
got a letter from back home
His girls family
Their home was hit by a tornado
There were no survivors
I have no idea what came over him
He just started walking
Straight to the line
When Peterson jumped him and held him down -waters screaming and clawing at his face -
Every ounce of purpose was gone from that man…
We sent him back to psych…
I don’t know
I think we should probably not let letters through like that
I think
If we do
Please don’t let me know about it

I was just wondering ….

It’s midnight
I can’t say much of anything else
But I hope you are well
Thanks for writing…
I’ll send this through
If I don’t get another chance to write .
Yours. Always Charlie.

Perfect things

It’s said that God took a rib
From Adam and created woman
So think about how close that is
She’s used to the rhythm of a heart beat
Constantly pulled by oceans
And tide rising under her skin
The universe pulling her
She feels everything
And maybe you can’t make it better
Or fix it
But maybe
Just maybe
The rhythm of your heart beat
That closer than close
Can cut out all the noise
You can feel the tide coming in on her skin…the orbit of the earth ….
This was the plan.

reine du désir

reine du désir
Hidden victories
Inside shadowed cemeteries
Who can see the ghost she bears ?
queen of survival
reine du désir
moving within mystery
She is the curve of the earth
The current moving in
She doesn’t fit in your hand
With oceans pounding
In her blood
She listens for your heart
reine du désir
She came from your rib
So bring her closer than that


The Burning of The House Of Sylvia

I like New York
I like the flow
This bar
I come here to relax with the piano
I come here to forget ….Sylvia.

A widow
Her husband died in the war
She never came out
She never came to town
Or to church
You could see her movement through the windows from time to time
a shadow

I was just starting in journalism
I wanted to be a success
And my first real chance came
When a story regarding Sylvia
And the loss of her husband landed on my desk

It required staying with Sylvia
For three weeks
Documenting her life
What she did
What she liked
Find out who she was
And if she was grieving

Her house
Was intimidating
more like a manor or hotel
as if it held every
Demon haunted story
Branded by this city.

Inside wasn’t much better
Cold and consuming any light
Rather than being illuminated by my lamp.

I was startled by her ghostly movements
She never made a sound
Rather just floated from room to room
Dressed in black
Her red hair framing her face

The days passed
Without her sleeping
she sat around reading
Or in her window
Whispering to herself
Often going away into her room
For hours
Once I asked about her husband
all she said was
I’m too young and old for this I don’t know what to do

And then rose and left the room in her soft way of moving

I don’t know what it was
But on a particular rainy Sunday
Exploring the house and library
I noticed her bedroom door open
I couldn’t help looking around

It was dark
Consuming all my energy
Old photographs
And painting
covered the walls
And a desk at the window

this is my life do you know what you’ve been sent for?

I was startled turning around
I hadn’t noticed her in the room
But there she was
Standing in the corner
Filling the blackness
Her red hair almost like a fire
Framing her green eyes

I’m sorry I didn’t realize this was …I just..couldn’t help myself

you will find..there are darker rooms in the world then what you’ve seen here and darker evils than all mystery

Later I woke at the darkest hour of the night
There was faint singing
Like an echo
moving through the house
I looked out my window and saw her
Sitting in the garden playing a piano
I left that Monday

all I had was
A story
About a young woman
Racked with loneliness
And mystery

They published it like she was a witch
Condemning her property under
Eminent domain
She refused to leave
The banks came
And burned her out

I never saw her again
I remember seeing her face in the window
They never found her body
I personally like to think
She went back to her family
In London but I don’t know

Her property was ideal for a large bank…which ironically burned due to an electrical fire last Christmas

That’s my story

I came here to New York to get away
And write about new things
Real things
From time to time I’ll come in this bar
And find an old photograph of the city or of me playing
waiting on my piano
Sometimes I think I see her in a crowd
A flash of red hair …
But I never know for sure
I hope wherever she is
She found her center
I hope she found her light.


Living Things

Take the path
Of least resistance
It only makes sense
Mass produce
common sense

Think for yourself
Unless it’s different

You need a phone with more energy

a “like” button for that news video
Empty vessels
Dormant,drowning in so much hyperbole

Hurry hurry
Out here on the wire
don’t know where we’re going
we are busy
Generalising living things

So take what you need
Don’t put yourself
On that cross in front of me,darling.
I may just cut it down.
Don’t put me on that throne
I may not wear the crown

Doesn’t anyone ?
Want to see what’s in the lost and found?
Doesn’t anyone
Remember rock and roll…
The days of old
Sweat the blood
The ‘fuck it’ all?
And you still had a brain

I could use a real story
With less resentment
I’d like to hear a perspective
Over some Indian
Or fish tacos and vodka
Without all the crucifying

Do you know what you are made of?
Have you ever picked at your skin?
Are you afraid of the sight of your blood?

Come closer
Than that