the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

How many hours
spent scribbling these poems?
How many days wasted
rereading them,
nudging and prodding
each word into its proper place
until it all flowed and sounded...

still not quite right.

I grew tired of the sun and the snow;
of the night and the day;
of the right and the wrong.
Lines once so clear
began to blur together.
I grew tired of searching
for something more than what I had.
I grew tired of being happy,
just as I grew tired of being sad.
The days were long,
but nothing felt so long
as the days I spent with you.

Our vacant selves plastered
together in some vain attempt at intimacy.
And yet,
I've never felt further away from someone.

If you must sing me a song,
make it soft and gentle enough
for a baby's skin.
If you must shut the lights off,
give me a colorful nightlight
to reflect bouncing shades
about the perimeters of my walls.
If I must sleep,
allow me a sweet, sinking feeling
in the center of my everything
as I drop from reality into dreams.

The calendar days crossed themselves off,
one by one,
and the hands of the clock
ticked, ticked faster.
I did not know what I wanted,
but  I knew I wouldn't have enough time
to figure it out.

The days went fast,
but the nights moved slowly,
like a sad country song
or the Alaskan summer sun -
forever trying to set,
yet never able to do so,
leaving the sky with
the color of perpetual dusk.