Take out my heart
and fill the hole
with a sweet tart-
take several bites
and stay through the night.

Take off my lips
and put them on your hips-

steal my finger prints
and get me in to trouble.

Pull out my teeth
and make a bite-mark necklace-
pull out my tongue
and make a broach
pinned over your left nipple.

Remove my hands
and use them as wash rags
as you bathe in the shower-
take my body
and use it as a towel to dry yourself off.

Take my soul
and use it as a blanket to keep warm
as we drift off to sleep.

I am a car parked in the back alley, ready for a quick get-away.
I am an emergency exit; unlocked and with no alarm.
I am a trap door.
I am a secret safe hidden behind your favorite picture.
I am the key to those handcuffs, hidden in a secret pouch with-in your clothing.
I am the button hidden beneath the counter at banks.
I am the secret compartment in the drawer of your desk.
I am a secret under ground passage way.
I am the ace up your sleeve.
I am a dreamer that suffers from aspirations
of being the dream you have
that makes you smile in your sleep,
sick with delusions, hoping that one day
I might get to be your wings.

Speaking as a tree
I am a branch;
fallen from an old old mesquite
by the forces of nature.
I have been able to grow my own roots,
but no branches of my own.

I pretend though,
that branches around me which belong to other tress
are actually those of my own.
Or that I too, belong to their same tree.
All in vain.
For they know not how it feels
to be a fallen branch
grown into the ground as a branch-less tree.

Speaking as a body of water
I am a creek
with aspirations of one day
becoming a full running river
with rapids
and life.
I've only been able to collect small stones and pebbles though,
from other larger rocks
which belong to much larger rivers.

You see,
speaking as myself
I am just that.
Myself.
To me, you as a branch
belong on my tree.
You as a rock, a boulder,
belong in my river.
You are my blood
my family.
But to you,
I am just me.
Just a friend that you have chosen.

I am a slave to your acceptance,
a servant of your attention,
a begger on the streets of your acknowledgement.

"You can choose your friends,
but not your family."
But what if your family
and you,
were never given the chance
to not have a complete choice?
What if the forces of nature
knocked you just a few feet from your tree,
only enough to look upon that tree,
but too far to be connected?

Learning your place
in other's hearts can be hard.
Especially when you see them as your veins,
and they will only ever see you as a hair style.
Of course they would never shave their head,
but your role,
your appearance
and your importance
in their life
is completely up to them.
Always changing,
depending upon the affairs of the night
as to whether you should be worn up
or down.

Here I am
to remind you;
mind you,
of a few things that might bind you
blind you,
find you – when you least expect it
and all I ask is you respect it
for it’s never perfected
the art of living
living art
there are many things out there
that don’t belong in a shopping cart
and all you can do
is do your part
to spread the word-
be that little bird,
absurd,
I know
but only we can hope to show
hope to glow
and pave a way
we are all in it together
each and every day.
You want the point,
I know,
but it’s always so hard
to just say “here I go”
with out facts and examples
some laboratory samples…
but I cannot do it alone.
Just keep these words in mind
let them circle and mix
they will settle with time
Yours
Mine
Ours
theirs
art
love
care
and compassion
listen
learn
live
hug
open
mind
down with time
shine
share
give
help
wine.

Lover's thoughts
left adrift.
Silence rings
with no sharp stings.

Lover's limbs
tangled and weaved.
No new thoughts conceived
only joy; believed.

Lover's heads
tucked away.
Sleep 'til day,
wish to stay.

Lover's day
lead astray
by memories
and mystery.

Lover's voice
on the other end
a rush of joy
and love again.

(In the now, once again.)

Baby, I'm growing wings.
And if what you say is true,
you might just want
to do something around the same...
at least build a plane.

I don't want empty promises
or false hopes to hang onto...
I create those enough in my dreams
while plotting my made-up schemes...

You asked
If I can do that with you...
I can only think of strong answers
that are not ANYTHING but true.

Don't act like you're the one waiting
...I feel like my heart is palpating
when I think of you and the dreams
I wish were true.

Can't we please just rewind...
I now know your mistakes
and mine.

Just don't promise that we can start again
unless you're serious, this time
about letting me in.

You've changed something inside of me,
it came about like a swelling tide of intangibles
peeking just over the horizon.

A silence of the mind
vainly bracing for the impact.
The under current,
the rip tide,
will surely pull me under.

I just go,
I let it carry me
to where I need to be.

I just go,
let it wash away my sins
to be left
at the bottom of the sea.

I just go,
I give in to the everything
that I cannot see.

and I'm swept away
to another world...
hopefully you'll catch up with me.

I will write to you
as much bad poetry as I can
with out feeling
like any less of a man.

I will write
to myself
as much bad poetry as I can
to make myself smile
and still feel like a man.

I will write to you
more bad poetry
and deliver it with a kiss-
as many kisses on you that I can
with out feeling
like any less of a man.

For my man-hood
is not measured by the inch,
or by hair to skin ratio,
or by word choice,
or by other's admission.

My man-hood just simply is,
as am I,
and I will write bad poetry every single day
up to the very hour
that I die.

(not in sorrow, just in the now.)

Here I am
just broke;
spending my last amount of change
on coffee and cigarettes
in hopes of creating something
out of the nothing that I own
that will take me up
like an angel
to the life that I dream about
but don't even remember anymore
because sleep is a memory
three days distant.

I've wasted my time
on thinking of how else to waste my time
in even more hopes that the time
will bring more creation
of the anything
that I dream of
coming from anywhere.

I create dust from my skin
watching it flake off
and collect on my books
that are there to inspire
but as of late,
do nothing but taunt.

The dreams,-they haunt
all of them just memories
of love poems
inspired by my own pining
fueling that insatiable lining
in my heart
that soaks up my emotions
like a tape worm
only for the left overs;
the waste -
to dribble off of my bottom lip
and and land on a paper
who's destiny is
a crumpled death
with a burial in the trash can.

Go!
Find me a word.
A mono-syllabic word.
A word that is as independent
as a lone tree in a field,
the only shade around.

A word only modest,
never narcissistic,
that cannot bring pride
to the reader or writer
(as the word has the only right to the pride.)

A word that is self-specific
that cannot be mis-read
or mis-construed.
A word needing no explanation.
A word that is not an object;
neither a noun or a verb,
but always the subject.
A word so strong ,
yet always softly spoken.

A word that may float forever
when muttered aloud
that brings courage and inspiration
while you keep your feet on the ground.

When it's found,
I'd like to be that word.
Your word,
my word,
the world's word
with all of it's traits,
and known by nothing else.
That word will be me
and I will be that word,
and when I die
it should be the only word
written above my grave.

A hero
in his own consciousness
for the world that exists
only in his reveries.

A warrior
so vigilant and chivalrous
in the village
behind his eye lids.

A king
so kind yet mildly imperious
ruling all
inside his land of dreams.

A drowning member
of the proletariat class
humoring all
in the world he walks.

The poems come out of your eyes
and not your mouth,
as you write sweet lines to me
across the room;
our eyes lock
and you tell me
you are longing to know
what my voice sounds like.
what my hand may be like
locked in yours
and what my skin may feel like
under your finger tips.

As your poetry is yelling at me
from across the room
I wonder what your finger tips may taste like,
the chewed off nails
and the salty-sweet skin.
I wonder what your hair would feel like
if I ran my fingers through.
What the muscles on your neck and shoulders would feel like
being rubbed and massaged
with in the palms of my hands.
I wonder what your neck would taste like
if I were to gently kiss and lightly lap it.


Your poetry
comes out of your eyes
as you look at me
from across the room.
and then I see you pull out your notebook,
with scribbles and gibberish galore
as you write with quick
and tightly flexed arms
and I wonder
what your eyes might have to say
to the paper beneath your pen.

The words you write
for only your paper to see-
it should be shared
and I implore you:
will you share it with me?

And I sit and wonder
if I am understanding your language
or am I just a foreigner
to the country of your head?

My right hand
-the dominate hand
-the right hand; correct.
Has been the wrong hand.

I am cutting it off,
severing the nerves.
For it has failed me,and failed to be
the proletariat hand,
the hand with moxie and avidity,
leaving me with no more ideas,and I am growing myself a new one.

And though I shall be
with out mobility
for just a bit of time,
the new hand will be worth it.
New
and born with everlasting vigor at the zenith.

...For it will have:
the grip of a king
the prowess of a master artisan
and the dexterity of a seamstress.

Hitch a ride with me,
Jump on my shoulders
and lets take a journey,
between the lines
and through the amphibolies.
Down onto
that blank spot on the page
so that we can write our own stories
and make our own lyrics.

Our skin against the paper,
and the paper against our hearts;
amphibolies will wonder
and fate will be left guessing.

Natural inclinations ,
unrequited vindications,
unadorned specifications.

These all make for reservations
of forced vacations -
like a sad
and elongated
pythagorean theorem
that always equals =

                                      a bad poem.

He never did know
anything except for what he knew,
and he now knows
nothing more
than what he used to know
but has not known anything
for a very long time.

The inexplicable something
that is in the air around us -

It changes rooms,
and makes colors brighter;
makes the light lighter
and gives the darkness magic.

The inexplicable something
that is made from nothing
when we are around each other,
still,
and its like a scab
that will not heal -
but quite the opposite
of an infection.

And it's something
that is not about the conversation
which involves things,
but not a thing in particular.

It's not about the touching
or the kissing
or the rubbing
and massaging.

It's about the inexplicable
something
that is made from nothing
when our bodies
and minds
sync together
in time
like rhymes.

The inexplicable something
that makes this
Not a poem at all.


The inexplicable something that never goes away
as I sit
or stand
or sleep -
it's still there.

And I would use the word "haunt"
but its more than that
and it drives me crazy.
Absolutely crazy.
When I can't figure out
why I cannot get you off my brain.
When I'm trying to write
and all I can think about
is a way to explain
this inexplicable thing.
Even though I have better things to do,
or more productive I might say,
But here I am
writing more and more words
to you
each and every day.

The two,
Divested.

                                The two divested,
                          the darkness melting away every imperfection.

every imperfection:
every stray hair
small blemish
scars
protruding bones
and fat.
Legs too skinny and hairy
to be enjoyed in the light.

                                  Love-
                       a nocturnal creature that prospers most in the dark
                                        Thriving on your pining .

The nocturnal creature known as love
enveloping the two.

Love,
and through love,
each creature-
the two and love,
all becoming a symbiote
and a parasite.

                       The darkness-
                 a creature of it's own kind.

The darkness
melting the day away
                               melting the imperfections away
the light
escaping into the moon
shifting every shadow
and enveloping the three.

The two,
         Love,
              the darkness.

The two love the darkness.

Like a lego
might make a click
when fit together
with another perfect match

or the cracking of the wood
as a screw
fits neatly with in its grain.

Or how the shoulder
makes a pop
when fit back into it's socket

My favorite noise in the world
is that
small
comfortable
grunt of approval
when your head fits neatly
into the space
between my arm
and my torso.

And our legs entwine
like a perfect
length of rope
and our bodies -
like two pieces of a puzzle
lay still
and quiet.

And our hearts
synchronize;
the rising and falling
of our chests
with each breath,
make like two gears
in a perfectly oiled watch
that keep each other going
with no hard work at all.

That noise,
that small
tiny
perfect noise
that lets me know
you are content
exactly where you are
and have no
intent
on going any where
any time soon
and that feeling
that I get
when this little piece
of blissful
knowledge
enters my brain
is better than any feeling...
any drug
any rest
any stretch
any work out
any piece
of perfectly crafted pie
and I want to own it
and bottle it
and take it out
and sell it
for thousands and thousands of dollars
so that I can buy you
the biggest bed in the world
and place it on the moon
so that we can snuggle more
and more
and more
and more
and so that I can have that feeling for ever.

I wanted to impress you...
but I am afraid I have failed

I wanted to impress you
so I shaved my face,
letting you know
that I am proud
of every young wrinkle
and of every scar
that I once hid.

I wanted to impress you
so I wore a shirt with buttons
to show you
getting my shirt off
takes more work
than just a slip of the hands.

I wanted to impress you
so I wrote a poem
with 17  words
that have more
than ten letters in them
to show you
I am smarter than those other boys.

I wanted to impress you
so signed myself up
to read my words
to a group of strangers
putting my own pride on the line
to show you
there are more important things to me.

I wanted to impress you
so I walked 3 inches taller
with my shoulders back
and my waist cocked tightly behind
to show you
I don't care that the world
can see my whole face.

I wanted to impress you...
until I found out
that the only person that you
are impressed by
is none other than your self.

so now I repress you
and your words
and your day to day verbs
to show you
that I am not impressed by you.