i see drops of water tracing the lines of your hair--
it's like you're crying but you're happy and i swear
even a painter couldn't muster the awe to bear
the sight of you under showering rain

i see nightlights peeking behind your silhouette
and the tones of your flustered blush try not to separate
themselves from the warm comely palette
of the shot of our figures in loving embrace

i see a blanket folded into your solemn sleeping shape
with curves smiling back; in a way, i wouldn't escape
had you had me landlocked within your pretty landscapes...


hug me tight
so that i might see
just how pretty you can be
under the soft glow of a burning moment

****!
no way!
im still alive?
im getting too ******* old...
anyway, what's for breakf-- "rent"?
****,
i'm old.

she's a park bench witness
to my marked French kisses
and her pulchritude pulls me to say
not even Clark Kent's mistress
can push me out of her flames

I don't like haikus
I feel they're overrated
or maybe I'm bad
.
.
.
.
.
.
at using one too few words to render an idea in sweet humble conciseness without the justification for verbosity and yet nevertheless words spill out my mouth like a flash of water inundating a poor little faucet with needless ramble I have to fudge my mind for in conjuring the words I so much desire that a jaundiced outlook on certain Japanese short forms was borne...


**** haikus but of
course I'd appreciate good
ones every now and...

****, I ran out of syllables

A Liebestraum and two Arabesques
stood there holding me
between the ears
one mundane evening…

The indoor storm who knew could deject
one so boldly
cleaned its final tears
and left me be…

A new wave calm eschewed ‘til present
flooded in me
serene and aptly dear
calmness…

For a moment I felt a sense of clarity that had neglected me for ages.
My sullen blues and anxious reds faded to black,
and all manner of emotion had been evicted from my mind.
I could think about things in straight lines and deep focus
for an entire ******* moment.

Then Spotify had to ruin the moment
with an indie rock montage in my queue.
I cried.

"The clock lies!" is the diatribe of a fiery romance.

He stockpiles a little side of diary parlance

in the form of littered poems.

To think the road has stretched itself so far

despite home so closely etched and still familiar

seems but a big lie.

Alas, I've never rambled so far from day one

as I have with her, stapled to hours that weighed like none

other before them.

I'm happy to say that so far as we've walked

the street lamps still shine despite the scaled distance

and sunsets spill to night in nonpareil vibrance

just as they had when we first held hands.

I don't think you know I used to listen to Chet Baker.
He's likely sung me to sleep once or twice by now,
but I lost him to time and blues, hidden upon layered
snowfall flung from new ears and new sounds.

So it came as a surprise I'd see him again
elsewhere somehow late one night before bed.
It baffles me you listen to such songs
when most people would rather hear a track from Red.

Our tastes may not align a hundred percent of the time
but at least your palate is something I admire
despite its wayward crimes and objections with mine,
for all its, let's call it, bona fide desire.

However, in the many instances they shake hands--
when they share stances and break lines in the sand--
those moments make me proud I met you.
Not many people can juggle in tandem.

After all, it takes two to know tango is best
when both are aware of exactly how either
would break the rules of the dance
to bend the movements to their own fancy.