drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
poesy
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young girls in this
dwindling twilight
liver gone
kidneys going
pancrea pooped
top-floor blood pressure
while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my toes
no woman will live with me
no Florence Nightingale to watch the
Johnny Carson show with
if I have a stroke I will lay here for six
days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, wrists, head
the radio playing classical music ...
I promised myself never to write old man poems
but this one's funny, you see, excusable, be-
cause I've long gone past using myself and there's
still more left
here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from
the typer
pour another glass and
insert
make love to the fresh new whiteness
maybe get lucky
again
first for
me
later
for you.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985

Luna, I bet you get this all the time
But Luna, you know I'm not like other guys
And Luna I think of you every time on the radio,
when its soft and slow.


Luna, I think I saw you in my dreams
'Cause Luna, you're all I hoped you could be
And Luna you're an angel sent from above,
Gift from god,
Goddess of love.

Vous allumez ma vie plus que le soleil pourrait jamais

Luna, I know this might be a lot
But Luna, you're the only thing I got
And Luna, you're all I see in my dreams at night,
You're my only hope, my guiding light.

Vous allumez ma vie plus que le soleil pourrait jamais

I can't help but believe
That you could be
The greatest love that I'll ever know.

Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f

She was New York in the winter,
Paris in the summer,
Los Angeles in spring
And
Boston in the fall.

Just beautiful.

I see him in the driveway and my heart skips a wild beat,
That white van with navy writing I hardly get to see,
His soft cotton uniform, fresh and clean, just for me.
I just love a man in uniform.
I have a uniform of my own, I've been waiting all day for him to see me.
Lacy thigh highs barely peeking out of my favorite cherry print dress,
I like to be a lady.

When he steps through the door, I follow our normal routine.
A glass of lemonade, I just made it.
A sandwich, I'll make him one.
He seems so unknowing of the desire burning within me,
I'm not like this for just any man.
Of course, I won't instigate anything,
Just watch him from the couch as he works.
I could watch him all day.

I tell him things to make him laugh and he takes his time,
As I would expect,
I'm such good company.
I swallow everything he says like it's my last meal,
Sweet, silky, smooth, like chocolate.
He's so relaxed, yet focused on the task at hand,
And I love catching him look up at me while I walk around.

When he's finally done,
He collects his things and I thank him for his time and services.
Such a nice man, dealing with a woman like me all afternoon.
Just to fix the TV.

225 days under grass
and you know more than i.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows,

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.

It's all in your head.

That's what he said to me.
When I couldn't drink another sip of coffee,
Or sit still for another moment
Because my heart was racing so fast,
And everyone was staring at me.
Oh my god, my makeup is rubbing off.
I look so hideous.
I don't want to talk anymore,
I think I'm going to be sick.

It's all in your head.

How could it be in my head?
I'm not even a real person.
Who am I?
I feel like I died so long ago,
I think.
I feel like I'm looking through someone else's eyes,
Just a ghost, occupying a body that isn't mine.
My feet don't feel attached to me,
I NEED TO GO HOME.


It's all in your head.

Is it?
Is it all in my head, so congested yet still racing, trying to escape all these thoughts?
Is it all in my heart, beating like an angry man's drum?
Is it all in my lungs, gasping for breath?

It's all in my head.

It's all in your head.
It's all in your head.
It's all in your head.
That's what he said to me.