Goodnight, my love (a dirge)

Goodnight, my love
I'll miss you
your spirit in the skies
but I know you're with me
when I close my eyes

Goodnight, my love
and thank you
for the time you spent with me
looking in my eyes in the afternoon
with our child on my knee

Goodnight, my love
and God bless
O how I love you so
even if you lived a thousand years
you could never truly know

Goodnight, my love
and so long
so long and see you soon
I will meet you in the spring-time fields
when the blossoms bloom

when the blossoms bloom

Some disease

This must be some disease
to be someplace
to not feel anymore at home
to be perfectly content
and want to be elsewhere

that commonality
that fear of failure
thus lack of attempt

such a pretty night as this
and I am pensive
I am lost in self contempt

the girls here are all legs
and little else
I can't say that I mind
unless I'm wont for conversation

and when all you need
is a self-confidence boost
it's poor a thought to force one to listen
and pay one to respond

to write down the words
you wish to hear
and coach them on inflection

to not be able ever to love again
and then fall in love far too easily

to be fragile as glass
yet crumble like concrete

Why do you do it?

'Why do you do it?'
he asked...

'What?'

'It,' he said...
'Why do you do it?'

I thought...
not long, but long enough
like a referee making a call
processed, but not overdone

'Love,' I said...

he waited...

'Not so much love for what I do,
but love for who I do it for,'

he stared...

'Love for my friends,
Love for my future family,
Love for you...'

he smiled, but remained silent...

'I don't mean to sound unselfish,
but that is why,
I have no interest greater than my friends.
There is nothing I can do
longer than have a conversation.'

I work only to be able
to buy them dinner, to spoil them
not because they want me to
like they wouldn't smile
if I didn't pick up the check,

we could eat peanut-butter
sandwiches at two-fifty a week
and still share in the same laughter,
but I love to take them out,
to surprise them
I study so I can stay in school,
stay with them
I don't really have any other
interests besides my friends,
well interests, yes, but I mean loves...

even writing, as I write this down
is just a hobby, everything, is just a hobby
one I'm sure I will grow tired of,
but never could I grow tired of this,
sitting in your passanger seat
carrying on long conversation
that depress me greatly
but make me so much happier,
Love,' I said...

he nodded,
'Okay...good.' and started the car

I think I'll go away

I think I'll go away,
I told her,
but I cannot tell
if it's a forward charge
or a desperate retreat

she seemed taken aback,
I must give the illusion
that I am beyond happy
in my near perfect home

I think I'll go to the country,
I told her,
and write and read and paint and draw

she asked what I would do for money
What, my works won't sell, you think?
I tease her,
No, I said, I don't need it
any more than I have, that is

How will you eat? she inquired
Her tone logical
her role as the devil's advocate,
not giving an opinion, just knowing
that I've thought nothing through

I'll farm, or work at a local pub,
or teach at the university,
or act if it comes to that,
God willing it won't

We share in a chuckle,
I can see the pain
starting to leak into her eyes
as she slowly realizes how serious I am

she doesn't seem to know
that this is my asking
her to come with me,
or how easily she could convince me to stay

Crystal Night

My father was a butcher
a shop in our hometown

the torches lit the street
as the shadows washed the ground

I do not blame you, Hershel
or the words that Goebbels said
only Hate could break those windows
two-thousand people dead

My father was a butcher
they threw a brick through his shop

The glass collapsed in pieces
shattering my soul
although the wood went up in flames
my heart remained whole

My father held me close
my sister was not found
I swear I saw a crying ghost
as they burned our shul to the ground

If I never find my sister
my eyes may never close
in hopes that they will see her
her eyes in ragged clothes


I bit my lip and cursed
these hateful bitter thieves

My father was a butcher
but never such as these

Sit down little man

Sit down little man
and learn your place
put your weakened hand
back over your face

Cover your eyes
and enjoys these lies

Sit down little man
and learn your place

Though our love may last

Though our love may last
the life of a red round rose
we'll always have the past
dripping down the tip of your nose

You walk shotgun into a room
I turn on heel and walk out
you yell and curse and scream and loom
I claim to not know what you're talking about

We first touched lips
in that ragged pink pedal boat
Perhaps not quite our first kiss
I explained in my last desperate note

I said...

I said the light ahead was dim
you said no, it's as bright as it has ever been

I said that life didn't offer much
you kissed my lip, that taste, that touch

I said I didn't quite understand
you said nothing as you took my hand

Even in my dreams I write

Even in my dreams I write

Walking down my new street
with my parents
on our way to dinner

They are college age
and I the awkward third wheel

My father jokes and pushes my mom
Just a step out of her path
She flirts back and pushes him

The same situation plays out
They are now their true age
This time I watch my mother's eyes
as they fill with disdain
for this still young man
she builds her bottled-strength
hoping to hurt under the guise of a flirt

Even in my dreams I write
myself dying slowly on some solid ground
my conscious drifting inside of my mind
into my heart where it settles on a scene...

I am revived by a team of medics
as my friend squeezes my hand
and asks me what Death is like

I say:
But instead of a tiger dying inside of me
I saw a Silver elephant rejoicing

O how easily we crumble
Like the crumbs of a cracker!

The things I dream
and the things I've seen
to my Memory are the same

Who is truly to say
What is real...
or what we feel...

Box white donut

This powdered box-white donut tastes
like a beach-side motel in the spring
Even with my door wide open
I can't hear those birdies sing

It's now been one year in this apartment
in this self-destructive town
I would leave but I fit in here
another pitch to make the sound...

Of millions of hearts yearning
Of millions of backs breaking

To make another dollar
To pay another bill

So they can forget their bodies hurting
So they can enjoy the time they kill

What will Life bring next?

What will life bring next?

What Messiah will round
the crowded corner
stand upon the slippery soap box
and call me untame?

What Greek goddess
will lay down her robe
and descend from her cloud
and elate and enlighten me?

What hooded lackie of Death
will stalk the many stories
of so-called starving artists?

What benign cancer
will plague my thoughts
and make me feel guilt
for not being fatal?

What historical figure
will step forth and
demand my audience,
of which I have none?

What paper brown novel
or literary text
will wash before my pale face
in the hopes of living for the first time
in half a century?

What will life bring next?

And what will I bring life in return?
What have I to give such a suitor?
What jumbled thoughts,
seemingly less organized each day
will life take as a compliment?
What index will I make
with what will life take from me?
Just a boy even at this age
too pious and centered to care for life
as well as life may care for me
Just a boy even at this age
too broken and tired to believe life's lies
or to tell it's Truths from reality
Just a boy even at this age
who only took from Buddha
that life is suffering
Just a boy who smiled and said
he'd make the most of it
but lived very little, but lived very well
the best and worst he remembers
however equal or dispersed
but most of life, fair lady, he will forget
what life brings to him, he will cherish and regret

Beware false prophets, the prophet said.

How many more cigarettes

How many more cigarettes
Must I smoke to call myself a writer
How many more days of being drunk
How many more hours at my typewriter

How many more mistresses
Must I have to call myself an artist
How many more nudes must I draw
How many more Greats must I list

How many more poems
Must I write to call myself a poet
How many more nights must I pretend to cry
How many more broken hearts will show it

How many more miles
Must I run to call myself an athlete
How many more gasps for breath
How many more swollen sweaty feet

How many more books
Must I read to call myself an intellectual
How many more glares must I give
How many scoffs must I make to make it actual

How many more enemies
Must I have to call myself an actor
How many more bridges must I burn
How many auditions will they factor

How many more stanzas
Must I write to call this poem complete...

The answer to any and all is always


none

If I don't wake tomorrow

If I don't wake tomorrow
If I've drunk too much at my expense
If I don't wake tomorrow
The night a long and dark suspense

If I don't wake tomorrow
My feet cold inside my bed
If I don't wake tomorrow
My mind lost inside my head

If I don't wake tomorrow
If I've slept past the morning bell
If I don't wake tomorrow
My sad calm face a poker tell

If I don't wake tomorrow
If I do not stir after a hurried nudge
If I don't wake tomorrow
If my fickle heart refuse to budge

If I don't wake tomorrow
If I stay inside of my sick sleep
If I don't wake tomorrow
If I've dug my grave inside my sheets



If I don't wake tomorrow
Understand my deepest sorrow
If I don't ever see you again
Understand you were my friend

Though your eyes may still do weep
Avoid to join my brittle sleep

II

the girl I saw for the very first time
blurry blue eyes that she did encompass
this now shallow heart stepping out of rhyme
golden profile of her that since I miss

fleeting days of summer have such long passed
I knew her not a wink before this glance
turned away emotion that would not last
she leaves my heart without a second chance

to shout would be much too cheap a thing
to turn those eyes and see her face in full
to learn to laugh to love and dance or sing
to bathe to bask in beauty beautiful

it is not wise for one to sit in wait
but nor is it to tempt to tempt one's fate

I

Be I so bold as to love you, my dear?
Is this the end I hoped which would not come?
Are you the one to still my growing fear?
Is this the point to which my life begun?

You are the life upon the base of mine
a broken ring the grandfather refused
the hand by which I care to tell my time
the ticking clock to which my life can move

I am the gear that turns your dark heart so
mechanic tick, cold metal revealed
the pendulum what swings you to and fro
beneath the shallow pane you have sealed

though time may stop and clocks like hearts do break
love lives inside a third dimension's sake

The Greatest Poem

I have written the greatest poem
ever read
or shall I say
I have spoken the greatest poem
ever heard

The one that I wrote in the shower,
alone, if that needed explaining
I laughed and wept at the words
that drifted from my tongue
and mingled with the steam

The subject was one that
would inspire world peace,
end all dispute
concerning class and race and god

I invented a new pattern
by which other poets will write
a new -ameter
one that magically, spiritually
soothed the soul
and caused enlightenment
in any mind of any ear
near enough to hear

but when I found myself clean
and the hot knob turned
as far as it could go
but the water still cold

I stepped out but did not dry off
as I am accustomed to do
instead I went for my pen
but alas by then
my mind lay as blank
as the paper page...

just know, though you will never know,
that I am, though I will never be,
the greatest poet
of the 21st century

Ideal

O damn thee, Plato!
You have ruined me
instilled me with
apathetic fear

never wanting to ruin
never wishing to taint
the thought that I had
whichever it is

unwilling to leave
unwilling to go
I don't want to find out
I don't want to know

and damn this interweb
a spiraling face inside my head
but one quick type
will set it right

and smooth the ripples
of purest thought
reflecting harsh ugly
blinding underminding Truth

no longer any leeway,
no chance, no room
no opportunity to feel

O praise and curse
the death of this ideal!

I'm less the Romantic

I'm less the romantic
with each passing day
the draining heart
has so little left to say

It's not for lack of trying
(well maybe it is)
but work is my love
as well as my mistress

When it comes to women
I have no standards
but unfortunately for me
they sure do have theirs

a cartoonist, a painter, a poet, an actor,
a writer, a reader, a lover, an athlete...

we could watch football
or hockey
or the evening news
or romantic comedy

we could go to a film or a show
or a poetry reading
or a museum opening
or an art expo

we could garden or decorate
or jog or bike or ice skate

we could take the train to the ballgame
and drink twelve beers between us
or we could stay in and fuck
or make love
or read on opposite sides of the couch
fireplace going or not
tea or soda in hand

we could visit her parents
or avoid them if they're cruel
we could go hiding in Europe
we could travel or take a class
at the local community school

we could go out or stay in
we could talk or sleep
we could cook or take-in
or go out to eat

we could have a dog or a cat or a kid
we could have a house or a cottage or a loft
a yard or a radiator
a city at our feet
or no one for miles

we could go to a bar or a ball
or some business banquet

we could help each other dress

she could tie my tie
and show me her dress

and I will actually have an opinion

Intellectual

Drinking red-box-or-bottle wine
Reading Camus' Stranger or Beckett's Godot
Appreciating the Art of Mime
Does not make you intellectual

Writing broken-heart-ed poems
Frequenting the theater show
Wearing sweaters you yourself have sown
I'm sorry you are not intellectual

You may memorize your Shakespeare
You may quote an obscure 80's TV show
You may be from Seattle, New York, or San Francisco
You are still not intellectual

You can support independent film
You can write your existential novel
You can collect Morrissey albums on vinyl
You are still not intellectual

You can shop at thrift stores
You can protest commerce and the wars
You can philoso-phize over what is actual
You are still not intellectual

You can refuse your parents triple-figs
You can refill your green pipe bowl
You can smoke a thousand stupid cigs
You are still, still not intellectual

Old friends

Old friends will sadly remain so

they will only remember
the times that they already know

they will meet for coffee and laugh
but the humor will always be of the past

they will share a dinner a week
commenting on the one before
before retelling the same sad stories

they will laugh and cry as hard each time
for the Truth will never change

Old friends will sadly remain so
they will never
once again
be friends.

What shall we do, my love?

What shall we do, my love?
In this now late afternoon

Shall we take a walk around the block
or stay inside this small tight room

Shall we go see a show
and catch the matinee
or start off the hour happy
and drink the night away

Shall we stay in...

never leave each others eyes
and make love until the evening
when we find ourselves past
time for dinner and end up
making a modest meal at home
flirting half-naked in the kitchen
laughing at newly made jokes,
critiquing our bodies kindly

Shall we have our friends come over
the ones we already don't see
too often or often enough
Shall we play games and drink box wine
and forget about work in the morning

Shall we make it a night we will
remember ourselves by
a night our friends will mark up as
that's them, as usual

Shall we attempt to do the opposite,
and run away from nothing
just board the train until it stops
just board the plane that we first see
on the checker board departures.


If we do, do we do it because it is fun?
Or because we are otherwise done?


But yay, they say
we fit like a hand to a glove


O whatever shall we do, my love?

I sure was lonely (short)

I sure was lonely
living alone

but even when they asked me
I said I was not home

Drinking in his gin

Drinking in his gin
you are none the wiser
proving yet again
the genius of the guiser

He holds your hand in his
at the trough of this abyss
He denotes how you despise her
the composure of the miser

The senseless shape
of his shadowed cape
clouds the cluttered thoughts
you cry to make

Begin again, void a friend
Searching hopeless for the end
He'll give you no news
nor the faintest of clues

Just the dread of those
deepening blues
The clearer it grows,
the more obfuse

The slackening of his hangman's nouse

Cold and curled
Marble fingers unfurled
around your slickening throat

A scuffled scream
straight from the dream
sounding still that sickening emote

His horrible laugh
straight from the past
or present, future still

the lowering of your will...

She took the train

She took the train
down the tracks
and she never once looked back

and I never went to look again

I just stayed with my boy
who just plays with his toys

but he used to smile more often

Vincent Van Gogh

Vincent Van Gogh
tends bar at my local pub

He diligently fills glasses
checks tables
flirts with women

And plays with his beard when he gets
a moment to himself
His eyes lost past the dark mahogany
Pastel paint dripping through his thoughts

He laughs with my mates
sharing stories and scoffing at love

He nods his head in welcome
when you thank him for your
fish and chips

He cleans each glass with care
And pours a perfect finish every time

He hears poorly even though
the place is never terribly crowded
You still must shout as he tips his head
to one side and squints his brow

His eyes never seem to listen
even if he may hear you

He says he lives nearby,
in passing conversation,
but I cannot imagine him
existing outside these
dark and framing walls

Except that once when
I saw him in San Francisco
He seems to confirm that he was there
but shows no memory of having been
Whenever talk leaves the
warm atmosphere of the pub
He brings his shoulders together as he shuffles his feet
He busies himself with anything
often dropping a pint or two
He changes topic maliciously
and always mentions he will be closing shop soon
even if we are already well past that time
We leave curtly and I tell myself
not to refer to such subjects
when next I see him

But in a drunken daydream,
a twisted inebriated curiosity
a pissed passion of knowing more
Always strikes me

and next I see him,
Jolly and Jovial,
as if I never angered him

never struck a chord
that painted him the wrong color

I've seen my days and plenty more

I've seen my days and plenty more
and if I watch my daughter die
I'll have seen too many

I beg of You,
not for god's sake,
but for mine

Spare her life
even if it means
the expense of mine
for it isn't any expense at all
without the value of her in it

Music

As Music rounds the corner
She gives a soft and kind hello
Music invites you into the next room with her
She lays you down and makes love to you

Music touches your whole body
tingling even your blonde hairs
as they raise from your neck
in ecstasy

Music intoxicates you
You drink her passion in
until you are quite tipple and tuned

Music taps your chest in tempo
as she tells you fondly of her childhood
or vehemently of her first love

Music breathes loudly into your ear
Her volume increasing with each breath
She tightens the muscle in your leg
causing your foot to curl

Music bites your lobe
and kisses your eyelids sweetly
Music raps her legs around your body
and brings you in close

Music infatuates your heart
increasing its speed to her rhythm
while your eyes grow oddly tired
closing off everything that is not her

that is not rapture
that is not Music

as she envelopes you inside of her

I'm free until they cut me down

I'm free until they cut me down
I'm silent until I make a sound
Alive until I'm in the ground
But I'm always running from
that bastard hound

He comes knocking up my door
doesn't say what he's knocking for

In fifty years

In fifty years
when we have miniature horses and shit
that you can hold in the palm of your hand,
how cute that would be.
But also how fucking sad that would be.
They would break their legs so easily.
You would have to hold their
poor tiny suffering bodies
up to a giant gun barrel and blow them away.
or ....OR....
you would have to manufacture tiny little rifles
and take them out tenderly!

Drunk Poetry

I need to stop writing drunk poetry

sloppy is the writing
and the rhyme
dull is the plot
too long duration-time
weak is the subject
usually myself
the kind of shit
even I'd leave on the shelf

I often repeat one line,
as I really do every time I write,
when I struggle for inspiration
I find one I enjoy and continuously
try to work off of it

I often repeat one line,
too tired to think
to poor a writer to actually write
although I'm sure sometimes
in my drunken state
I've actually forgotten I used it already,
a spark of wonder opens my slit-ed eyes,
my eyebrows crack upwards
shattering the pane of my forehead
as I scribble maliciously
contently recording another
brilliant and original enlightened thought
oh what a silly sloshed Saddartha am I!

I often repeat one line,
under the assumption it gives
poem structure
under the impression it adds
pleasant rhythm
I should have read
less Whitman,
maybe more Yeats or Keats
or Byron
I should have started with
one great line
perhaps the only one you'll remember
and ended in a nice
perhaps thoughtful couplet
something-something sublet

I often repeat one line,
and instead of ending
like the Aristotle
I usually have my last stanza
be the same as the first stanza
so it seems a clever ending
or so at least I end
as strongly as I began
I should realize I am writing a poem
I should come to some sad yet beautiful conclusion
not revert to my best joke
like some sorry stand-up comedian

I suppose the conclusion here is:

I need to stop writing drunk poetry.

Halloween Shalloween

There was a boy
young and curious
he had no toys
his father was very serious

and on Halloween night
his giddiness exponential
He'd set to make it right
dressed in a costume rental
he'd prepare to go out

his dad would shout,
"You're not leaving this house tonight,
by God, this blasphemy simply isn't right
My son shall not be seen,
No sir, not on Halloween!"

He'd stay in
swearin'
loathing the busy street
with sweaty palms and shuffling feet
he'd sit on his cold window-ledge
staring out over a crippled willow-hedge
his eyes would water with wanton delight
and scrutinize the once scary
now weary night
ghosts and knights and ghouls
he watched them caravan by in large car pools
Encompassed in his Christian home
some spirit still some-what shown
on the door: a cross of bone

With his porch light off
and froth from his father's
open jaw he saw
little children sweetly passing
but his father, pacing,
barking raw and shrieking fast,
the old man cried, "Stay off my grass!"

Yes, the kids all hated his old man
and would fight back as best they can
A swear and glare
beneath their sweaty mask
anything above a mumble
was a grueling task

In turn they hated him
O it seems he could not win

Confusion

Blurry-white.

Everything is illuminated, light encompasses
all sides in a narrow tunnel-vision.
A few voices. Pick them up as if
wearing headphones that play their track
of conversation, converting mild to morbid with imagination.
Ignored, not even there,
your brow furrows to spell a scream.
They gesture and judge, arguing articulately.
Focus on their hands, reading only the last page.
It lifts and falls trying to
convince and convey.

It does neither

Death doth strike!

Death doth strike!
Knells do knoll!

Death, I thought,
take me then!
Death, I wonder,
how and when?

Prayer...

I sat alone in prayer

I asked God of right and wrong and fair

He said, 'and look upon this
sudden interest,
who is this girl, this muse,
this temptress?'

I sat alone in prayer

I asked God, 'God, are you there?'

He said, 'O what a thing to do,
to sit in such a cozy seat,
and wonder where your chair's gone to!'

I sat alone in prayer

I asked God, 'What does death compose?'

He said, ' a morbid thought I do suppose,
but a tangled guilt a bloody rose,
The cheerful and ignorant,
Death, say I, is not for those...'

I sat alone in prayer

I asked God, 'well and what of war?'

He said, ' come now my child,
the world's a bore, you have your sports,
I have my war, what you think
war's too mild?'

I sat alone in prayer

I asked God, ' well and what of love?'

He said, ' love is you,
you, my love, I give to them,
I dub thee man, but call thee friend.'



(I sat alone in prayer

'God,' I asked, will I be okay?'

He shook his ball and said,
'ask again another day,')

Like the girl that I saw on the side of the road...

Like the girl that I saw on the side of the road

she lay face down with her arm tucked under herself
she had on blue jeans and one small sock
she wore white sneakers
though they lay fifty yards from her feet

she had strawberry-brown hair, if there is such a thing
she wore a rubber-white Remember bracelet

she had on a t-shirt, nothing fancy
just a t-shirt
just jeans
just sneakers
just plain white ankle socks

she lay face down with her arm tucked under herself

she danced beautifully
she had a voice of honey
and an even sweeter laugh

she cooked wonderfully
she had a face of Spring
and an even fresher smile

when she smiled her cheeks blushed every time
I used to just watch the red
rush to and wash from her face
Just sit and smirk and watch
the red rush to her cheeks
as they raised swiftly
her eyes wrinkle
her dimples catching the light
inside their weaved basket of beauty

Just sit and smirk and watch
the red fade back into freckles
her nostrils flare with new air
her eyes glowing with new warmth
like a fire with fresh breath

It's strange how little she looked
like the girl that I saw on the side of the road...

Today I found myself...

Today I found myself
thinking very little

Just laughing
Just talking
Just filling a space in my mind
that was common but unique
Just having an experience
that was not manufactured to me,
that had no ticket price
Nor shipping cost.

A life that was my own,
but shared greatly with others

A house that was my home,
but had no fences to be mended

A grave that was my bones,
but had no grieving flowers

A book that was my Tome,
but was only dedication

A path that I did once roam,
but was not the first (nor last) to do so

I only remember her eyes...

I only remember her eyes...

and even then
I could not tell you
what color they were

I only remember her eyes
two glowing ellipses of bright
I remember nothing of her

just her eyes
as they didn't stare
did not glance
but simply looked into mine

the subtle shiver as she slid into my soul

I only remember her eyes
and how the corners curled
upwards like what would be a frown
if they were not a smile

No recollection of lips
or the blush in her cheeks
No remembrance of skin
or the count of her freckles

her smile is lost in my mind
somewhere, hiding in a back corner,
of which I am sure I have many

others are filled
with her name,
her hair color and style,
her, I'm sure, button nose,
with nostrils the perfect shape
though I don't know
what that would be

I only remember her eyes
and yet I wonder
how much she remembers of me

That moment before (Infidelity)...

That moment before
lips touch lips

The gentle pause and
satisfactory hesitation

Anticipation cannot describe

That moment before
hips brush hips

The self-aware and
tangible sensation

Rationalization cannot decide

That moment before
hands brush hair

The cold shiver and
acute vibration

Inhibition cannot abide

That moment when
give meets take

The blind mind and
godly manifestation

Contrition cannot subside

That moment...

She reminds me of no one...

She reminds me of no one...

no one I've seen
nor spoken with
nor glanced over
in an ad page of
some frivolous magazine

No one I've read about
whether fictional
or historical
whether legend
or myth
whether god
or mortal

No one I've imagined
no day dream
no nightmare
no long lost love

No one I've ever known
nor will know
in this life
or next

No novel
film
nor text
has ever had
the likes of her

She reminds me of no one...
but everyone reminds me of her

These restless and warm nights...

These restless and warm nights
are some of the best I've ever had.

I do admit I much prefer
the reason to be a woman,
laying softly beside me,
the moment to sweetly sexy
to end.

Those restless and warm nights
are nice in their own way.

The feeling of rolling over
and kissing her pale cotton skin.
Waking her just enough for love.
Causing her back to lift from the sheets,
sliding a tingling dying arm
beneath it, supporting her pleasure
with strong and taut grip
that actually gives no pressure.
To kiss her weakened yet full lips...

But these restless and warm nights
of writing and drinking and smoking
and laughing at my own poor thoughts
are nearly as good.

These nights of knowing that
I could stay here forever,
in limbo betwixt moon and morn.
But knowing that I will,
not soon, but before long
lay my head down,
as that is all that is
required of sleep these days.

These nights of walking from room to room,
of noticing the little things
that only tired intoxication does bring.

These nights of shuffling through old notes,
and photographs, and records.
Of recounting the past ten years
of one's life, and speculating
on the next four or so,
as I really don't care to look
too far into the future
for fear of boredom setting in
before it's scheduled time.

These nights of simply sitting and smirking
at nothing.
Like an inside joke that even I don't understand.
It seems like an epiphany,
it seems so near enlightenment,
my eyes grow weak
from the flame of Truth
and purest passion
and my eyelids fall reluctantly
under the weight of the world
as it moves from my shoulders
into the stars

What were his last thoughts...

What were his last thoughts
as he pressed the steel to his temple.

What were his last thoughts
as everything suddenly seemed so simple.

What were his last thoughts
as he wiped away a tart tear.

What were his last thoughts
as he shuddered off his final fear.

What were his last thoughts
as he remembered past poets lain dead.

What were his last thoughts
as he bit a pale lip until it bled.

What were his last thoughts
as he smiled shyly in ripe relief.

What were his last thoughts
as he gulped away his growing grief.

What were his last thoughts
as he held a bronze bullet to the yellow light.

What were his last thoughts
on that cold Colorado night.

I trickle down your cheek...

I trickle down your cheek like a tear.
First in the wrinkles of your eyes,
made not from anger or confusion,
but from laughter and solution.
I magnify each freckle,
but I stop and take my time,
laying quite simple,
in that cute dark curve
that is your dimple.


I cool the red-rose cheeks
of your embarrassment.
Until I fall from your chin,
not stuck up but held high still.

But now I lie on the table top
or the paper page of a sad novel
that you hated reading,
but still felt guilty when you finished,
hoping you could turn at least
one more page, one more insight,
one more seemingly-understanding-statement
from an author you've never met,
nor heard of, but somehow relate to.

I seep into its yellow paper
weakening its reserve, but
strengthening yours.

Or perhaps I am hugged
into some sweater's sleeve
that you are wearing.
You wipe me away in shame,
I do not feel offended, I assure you,
I would have done the same,
if I was alone.
But I am cozy inside this argyle stitch,
that comfortable cotton
without scratch or itch.
That cookie warm feeling
of being home.

I go out alone...

I go out alone, for a cup of coffee.
To break up my day at home,
but also to hear fresh the ambiance of the day.
The city street lends a new tone,
a composition of cacophony,
not unfounded in the window of my small apartment,
but different enough from the idle chatter
that leaks through the clear pane
and too long heard turns to silence.

But here in a busy coffee house,
maybe even a bistro, I gander,
the onomatopoeia is too trite to write,
almost too clear to hear.
But I do enjoy the clapping
 of the rain on the door frame.
And the flapping of the candle
by which I write, it seems
to cut between two worlds,
desperately pulling between them.

The hot hiss of an espresso machine
reminds me faintly of home,
in a frigid winter spent fondly
in and out of the house in equal measure.
The cognitive images drain through
my mind like the memories
of a vivid dream
immediately upon waking,
or the frightful water
sheltering away after a shower
into that hole that most assuredly
journeys through the earth,
to the ocean,
whatever that is.