I had so much to say in that poem that got away
As I went about my day
It came to me
Perfect and true
So many beautiful words
But what’s a poet to do
When out and about
Lots of stuff to do
And the poem disappears
Into the void of my mind
And only reveals tiny glimpses
Teasing me, teasing me “come here and find”
Lost creation, please be kind
Hop right on back into my mind

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at ****** are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to **** you
to **** anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art

What a challenge to discern
between different shades of love,
bundled vessels
beneath the surgeon’s gaze.

Am I enamored, or simply
safe within the confines
of your presence? Electricity —
or a grounded, warm affection?

Why must I cut us open so?
What about our coexistence
befits a keen dissection?
I cannot paint us faithfully

on canvas, gauze, or paper;
I remain chromatically confused.
I pray you do not take
uncertainty for misdirection —

I’ve naught but
colorful abstraction
with which to leave
our hearts perfused.

we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections

don't say you don't love me
tell me you hate me instead
don't say you don't love me anymore
anything but that i beg
i don't need to hear it
to know that i fear it
we get lost in the fire sometimes
but we always clear it
if you can't tell me you love me
just say that you hate me
one might upset me
but the other will break me