the minotaur oils his mustache with a man skin every morning

and he dons a suit made of hair harvested from live cats

but who would want to marry him with or without his robust hygiene

only a dead lumberjacks old boots and tobacco pipe

so he shivers in his hard concrete home beneath the metro station

and listens to the insects that fall into the deep well

his hot clouds of breath melt the neatly styled mustache like beheaded fish

when will he have paid for his one night of indiscretion

minotaurs live lives of musty beer and black eyes of primitive dreams

they stand in the blue water and howl at winters moon face

but this minotaur in the cat hair suit likes to read philosophy

ideas can have the strength of reality he says

in his head there is a city by the sea with a sidewalk cafe

and a lumberjack orders iced black coffee and a roll

he has eyes green as pine smoke and wears a pair of vintage leather boots

the minotaur gives the man the name owl eveningstar

this side of summer is like thunder from a train window owl offers

it climbs the glass and lays the red hand of sleep on your ear

the minotaurs head rests on owl and he breathes in the smell of cut grass

birch bark artisanal / paper home made dog meat soup

the winding road of this labyrinth is planted amply with flowers

like urban wildfires they bloom and light up the dome of night

it becomes quiet as rust black snow journeys down to the glassy shore

owl takes the minotaurs hand and says this is your doing

you too my beast are an idea inside your very purple mouth

cry if you will but only you will be able to hear

the moon falls hard on the minotaur and dyes his eyes bluer than ice

the oil on his mustache has worked its way into his dreams

here at the station a man in plaid stands reading a book on plato

he would give his hand to see a live minotaur someday