I went looking for God
but I found you instead.
Bad luck or destiny,
you decide.

Buried in the muck,
the soot of the city,
sorrow for an appetite,
devil on your left shoulder,
angel on your right.

You, with your thorny rhythms
and tragic, midnight melodies.

My heart never tried
to commit suicide before.

you exhale softness, and
I have cold hands
the moths have to gather under my nails.

it was once supposed that
swallowing gum would make your intestines
stick together, that
is why I shared my piece with you
one day.  you said you had an idea, soon
we both smelled of cinnamon.

wet, sticky cinnamon
please glue your insides to me, I thought.

I threw up in July, exhaled
you.

I needed to, so I could write about how I get
so sad sometimes
so empty
my hands are cold but my
heart almost always has a fever.

I could write the poetry
about my concerns
Inside a society
where no one listens or learns
They would rather fan the flame
and watch it all burn
Take everything in vain
for nothing in return
Leaving little for their children
but tainted water and scorched earth
raised with the belief
in ancient fictional words
Who cant see it as a story
about wisdom pursued
they'd rather sit in ignorance
and see it as a whole truth
In constant dispute
as it all comes unglued
the problems ensue
instead of starting anew
Veils wrapped over their eyes
then they act surprised
when found tangled up in hell
with the decay on the vine
content with the leadership
providing them lies
instead of thinking for themselves
they follow misconstrued ties
provided with the wealth
of being told they're just fine
but you are nowhere near it
and neither am I

I could point out all these matters
that it seems they forgot
but it falls upon deaf ears
afflicted with brain rot.
Lord knows I tried
but why give it another shot
just to be discredited?

I'd rather not

When I was in school,
we would plant hundreds of seeds and
put them under lamps
until they grew
to be as long as our limbs.

I wish I
could move that fast now
and get the **** away from you.

I walk through the dark but await a new dawn
for what I feel is right sometimes turns out wrong
It's about where your going, and not where you've gone
I wander this path to find where I belong
Under no circumstance will my resolve be fawned
even though I surpassed the line that was drawn
My soles are worn thin, but these legs still stand strong
If the shoe fits wear it, and walk the **** on.

I will never tell you that you look beautiful.
I will never tell you that (you) look lovely.
Because those statements hinge on sundresses
and too much time looking in the mirror.
After all, it is just a piece of glass.
And you (are) too,
because I see right through the beaming
reflections on your skin.
And you are deeper than the ocean,
calmer than it too.
As sweet as dripping honey,
and as (soft) as morning dew.
You’re that feel(i)ng at 2 (am), when the Sun
is asleep and somehow I still don’t feel alone.
And you are every gentle raindrop landing
on (quiet) rooftops in late July.
Your roots sink further than lofty White Oaks,
and your reach extends far beyond their branches.
You keep every beam of sunlight,
your eyes like glowing coals,
and every morning the horizon must borrow
from all the splendor that you hold.
They fill books with all your essence,
and it’s still never enough.
So I will call you what you are.
You are lovely.
You are beautiful.

My dreams have become waterlogged: floods
and unstable bridges, broken levies and
water leaking into our house
from the crack beneath the screen door.
I see you from the streetcar window,

as the flood climbs the sides of our
city's monuments; its storm-darkened cathedral.
At the far side of the bridge, in your rain jacket
and arrows of wet hair, against the swollen sky,
you stand holding a sign to your chest.

Your eyes like lost pebbles in a stream bed.
I walk to you over the rails, the deluge raging
under my feet, purple storm clouds tinged
with sick yellows raging overhead.
The sign says the end.

and perhaps it is, perhaps it was.