Receive it, my impatient heart--
receive it as it comes.
Do not worry, pulsing thing,
straining against that chest
you inhabit. Incubate;
let the body prepare you:
Beat calmly where you lie.
Be comfortable, my eager heart,
my vibrating, warm little heart.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 5:34 AM UTC
Love only knocks once.
Maybe she can be scouted-
out thereafter, sought and
captured tearfully, like a dog
reunited with the master
whom he'd thought was dead--but
she only knocks once, and then,
I think, gives up. The universe
gives up. I cannot will love back to me.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 5:51 AM UTC
This isn't a poem. Seriously, where'd he go?
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 3:04 AM UTC
as o'ergrown with lust
my childish spirit yet
has been naively quick to trust
and slow to feel regret...
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 1:49 PM UTC
Character development
is truly an undertaking.
Perhaps an incomplete
person cannot develop
another, after all--even
one who is not real.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
A tiny devil lands
on my shoulder;
having no counter-
part, she stands
and, as I walk
at rabbit's pace
to the old place
where we used to talk,
she drags from
her cigarette,
flicking it,
hum-drum.
"He ain't comin',"
she says,
and ashes
on my neck.
"Don't need him,"
I lie--should lie
down to die,
but light up instead.
Unconvinced,
she scoffs at me.
"Then what do you need?"
And a dreadful wind
slithers through
the fissure,
icy, bitter.
"I don't need you."
The woods, too
are dead, like us--
a Winter-sheared husk
through and through.
You'll come, I hope,
leaning over
the grove, or
maybe I don't.
You'll come, I hope,
leaning over
the grove, or
maybe you won't.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
Nothing here
and nothing there;
nothing then
and nothing now.
Should I return
or should I stay,
bleakness prevails.
And so I say,
"I am embodiment
of will;
I am alive;
I cannot be still.
Everything here,
everything now!
I am I,"
and hear it resound.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 12:49 AM UTC
The vibrant blue paint on the walls seems
almost like that emblematic Technicolor
blue. I've had the blues, but they didn't
look like these. The house constricts--
the ceiling seems to dip towards my head
closing in on me. I fly. Back in Jazzy's room,
I notice, with humor, a label on the spice:
"Not intended for human consumption."
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 4:30 AM UTC
When first I loved,
I listened to myself.
I heard it from
within my gut
that I should tell:
I loved. I loved!
Oh, why did I listen
to myself? Yet
how I loved!
First I loved, then
reasoned with myself,
and this I heard:
I love! I love!
Oh, why did I not
listen to myself
when I did love?
Oh, why is there
another me
inside myself?
And how she loves!
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 5:31 AM UTC
The way in which
my stomach stirs
is just as when
I touched your face
where you lay
while you slept
with your head
tilted back
and your eyes
closed-skyward--
where were you looking?
what did you see?
did you behold me?
Oh, something
has touched me--
reached inside
with fingertip
and touched the surface
of my waters;
they spin there,
stirring, stirring,
waking. Oh,
what is happening?
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 5:08 AM UTC