Bottle of herbal gin
but I'm already drunk off this,
your easy stride and devious grin.
I don't know where to begin
laying under magnolia and stars
like childhood friends.
Giving you all of my secrets
my break and my bend.
Please don't ever go sober
and leave Dallas again.

Everything, excluding your unlicensed smile, is gloomy.

Your ebullience — my elixir.
Your structure — my realm.
My charmer,
My frolick-footed, arm-in-arm,
My wintertide warmer.
My bicycle bell,
My penny well of unwary wishes.
You capsize my worries,
Choke the vexed fires,
And anchor my fleeting desires.

I appreciate you for
your consistency
As you play a record
spinning in my head
Rewinding the memories I hate,
a constant repeat, and repeat...
A reminder of: so many poems
I wrote for girls

I honestly hate them all
wishing I could scrap them all
from scrapping together the courage
to write them all
To agree so well with disagreements
all those inner feelings
You seem to be more or less,
but I'm really molested by you
Touched by this heart-wrenching feeling
disgusted by it's hand
Discussing to myself as the comfort of
my own voice as an only friend

We are perfect foes you and I
novocaine; are we never again to
share such an unfeeling pain?

In a house of my brain
quieting whispers of wind
So loud to hear in it's open space;
might be paranoid, filling holes
to be whole in the voids

Some days I learn to avoid you
as you're a poverty of my personality
And it's so rich to know I can't
afford you

So at any given chance,
I try to ignore you

inverted prism drops
shake loose
  from
   your
lens-curved glare//like
waylaid promises in an urban legendary
night

as
painted toes curl around their harpy-perch home.

as too, rests :
the
spit on your cheek and the
gun-metal.grey in my
hair


like cisterns without a
                           roof .

like the unnamed clouds
       behind constellations .


like a fool’s alchemic
                      love .

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.

my heart urges to
create
but my mind
cannot focus on passion
can’t put aside pain
so my heart’s paintings
become plain
overwritten by
an unloving mind