When I owned the moon,
love songs made me swoon,
and birds rejoiced in magic,
but I dropped the ball,
a fumbl-
            ing

            fall.
Now all they sing is tragic.

A hundred thousand years ago,
give or take a month,
an epic poem started strongly
with a clever grunt.

Then stanza 2,
an urgent cry.

Now all we hear is,
Who am I?

I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting
Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage
I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.

I’m a man,
and so I can.

I can walk alone at night,
for only cowards get a fright.
I can post my real last name.
This life for me is just a game.
I can look them in the eye
(as long as I don’t start to cry).
I can curse and yell and shout.
That is what I’m all about.
Assertive is the way to be.
I'm the boss. Now can't you see?

I can dress how I would like.
I can ride a reg’lar bike.  
I can bend or squat or sit
with legs spread wide. I am the ****.
My gender, I don’t qualify.
Default is he, and so am I.  

And when I spit, I draw no looks.
My undergarments have no hooks.
My hair just sits as it was made,
Distinguished as it starts to fade.
I can slap my gut with pride.
She said me too, but that ***** lied.
My pain is real; my anger, too.
And I don't have to use the loo.

Dear daughter, won’t you try to be  
a big strong man as safe as me?

At least you had a glimpse of bliss.

You made her laugh.
You made her blush.
And really, that should be enough.

You know her heart and always will.
A fire raged, but now just chill.
At least you had a grab at bliss.
No regrets! It's things like this
That make life Life, and so you live,
For to receive, you've got to give.

An open heart gets hurt as hell,
But closing keeps out joy as well.
At least you had a taste, young man.
You'll know it when it comes again.

There once was a girl who needed a treat,
ignited the stove, and turned up the heat.
Her cupboard was bared,
and linens were aired,
and USDA inspected the meat.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.