I remember how the floor felt on my feet.
Cold and bare,
I walked the halls at night
for a warm glass of milk
before bed.
You were always up,
and surprised I was, too.
I liked your crooked nose
and your too-big teeth.
You taught me beauty -
how little it matters,
and how much of it there is.

I liked the way the floor felt those days,
cold against my bare feet.

When the sun rises, when the sun sets;
When the moon is full, when the sky is empty,
I think of you.
When I cross Eagle River or climb Mt. Baldy,
the sun splintering into pieces above the world,
I think of you.
I think of you in Germany or Alaska,
with friends or alone,
when happy or sad;
I miss you all the same.
One year, two years, three years...
Nothing and everything's changed.

Life is long.
Forgetting feels like a betrayal.

Wherever I go,
I go without you.
You told me I could visit
whenever I wished.
A kind lie, to be sure.
But a lie,
nonetheless.

If grief is a wave,
then when will the water ever still?

If the work breaks your back,
then laying down shall be all the sweeter.
And if the noise deafens your ears,
then listen for what cannot be said.
If your skin grows raw from the sun,
make all your touches light and gentle.
If the food tastes of filth,
find joy instead in the fullness of your belly.
If the air is polluted with cigarettes and gas,
plant a flower to fill your nose with sweetness.

If you find yourself alone,
just focus on finding yourself first.
If you are unable to live for yourself,
live for others.

I fell in love
down by the shore,
where the water was sweet,
and the air even more.

A field of sunflowers
stretched out before us.
You plucked one
and placed it in my hair.
You said I was beautiful,
and I believed you.

Lazy days of chain-smoking
and drinking too much
made me melt like butter.
I was lost and now I'm found.
I was alone and now I'm not.

I found myself at the end of myself
and forever continue to do so.

Charming and beautiful,
glowing with iridescent youth,
they swarm about me
in their languid days.
Some wear all black.
Others adorn themselves
with baubles
and rainbows of color.

No matter how fair their skin,
or clothes or speech -
no matter how rich
or poor they were born,
they are all the same.

The clock ticks for each
at an indifferent pace.

I have as many flaws
as there are stars in the sky.
Mine are not nearly as beautiful,
yet I love them just the same.

Roaring skyscrapers.
Businessmen shuffling papers.

Beautiful women with stilts for legs.
Maids making rich men's beds.

Runners swoosh by with grace.
Everybody a brand new face.

It's all too easy to leave no trace.
Dear God, what a place!

Don't let it define you.
Wield it as a weapon -
as both sword and shield.
Be happy for no reason,
so that there will always
be cause for joy.

Don't let the noise of others
drown out the music that is you.

Stars in sky,
Plane flys above.
Lightning thunders below,
Flashing and dancing
From cloud to cloud.
Silence and darkness,
Then an explosion
Of light and expression.
A Colorado summer night.

A women boarded the same subway stop as me today.
She wore a white, flowing shawl with tiny purple flowers on it
that stretched down to her knees.
She reminded me of my childhood and of my mother in her thirties.
She held a grocery bag with daffodils in it,
and I felt she was something rather special.

Perhaps we had been joined in each other's lives
for these fifteen minutes,
for some strange reason,
much unbeknownst to the two of us.
I tried to figure it out,
but ran out of time,
and as we emerged from the station,
she walked north,
and I went east.
Maybe I'll never know.
Maybe she was just a woman
with a white shawl and purple flowers.

My stomach drops
when the car goes down a hill.
I feel like I'm falling,
but not in a bad way.
Like a sort of drug,
or midnight shot of tequila.
Warmth floods
my body.
Everything's okay.
If you hurt yourself first,
others don't get the chance.

All I can give you
is my empty heart,
my hollow love.
Like a glove,
it wears thin with time.

Beautifully broken,
barely belonging.

Eyes open, awake in exhaustion.
Bones ache, can't catch a wink.
Pretty love songs
sing my worries away.
Still my teeth grind,
grind, grind.

It's late.
The cars have stopped honking,
but the wheels of my mind turn on and
on and on.

I walked through a burning house
and found I was alone -
all the others had fled,
yet forgotten to warn me.

The mirror is the only one who speaks to me now.
It tells me of my beauty,
and bemoans my fleeting youth.
It curses the briefness of my body,
and of my supple bones and bare *******.

I envy the trees and the butterflies,
who found their beauty too acute to share with me.
I envy the lakes and rivers,
whose beauty will only grow with time.

As I wilt and fade in color,
the world shall grow ever fairer, ever nobler.

Such is life,
and such is time.

That first inhale
is like every small joy
wrapped into one neat package,
assembled in a nice, red box
meant just for you.

Flick, flick,
go the ashes,
the end burning brightly
like a firefly on a dim Southern night.

When my lighter blazes
beneath the light drizzle of tonight,
I'm reminded that life
can be so delightfully decadent,
so enchantingly effervescent.

The good times
are made all the sweeter
And the bad times -
the car trouble,
the failures,
and the lost hopes -
lose their edge,
and take on a shape as soft as smoke,
subject to float away with time,
leaving only a sharp smell behind.

You kiss like it's going out of style.
You kiss like you're already inside me.
Heavy breaths, panting,
arms and legs tingling.
No need for words
with kisses like those.

Those kisses are poetry itself.

People are like flowers.

We begin as sprouts,
so susceptible to harm
that even a vague breeze
may blow us out.
The only way to grow
is through the careful nurturing
of another.
Under proper care,
and in the right environment,
we bloom,
each of us a little differently.
We exude beauty
and absorb pain.
We feed off of both the sunlight
and the rain.

Like flowers,
we are so very alive -
creatures of the Earth,
and so exquisitely designed to be just so.

Tastes good, doesn't it?
The fire burns your throat
as you chug a shot down.
The taste ain't sweet,
but the feeling sure is.
The drunker you get,
the higher you float.

"Can life always feel this good?"
The answer's no,
but you refuse to accept it.

Like a child,
you're silly and soft,
giddy and gladsome.
Like a child -
ever-inquisitive -
you love to learn.
You find those you admire
and question, not docile,
yet sure of more.

No hesitation in your advances,
like those who have yet to learn
to be unsure of themselves.
Age so often removes from us
the ability to love without hesitation,
or even to love at all,

but not from you.

Sun bounces off leaves,
hopping from branch to branch,
reflecting across the whole world.
Flowers bloom - red, blue, and green,
sending succulent scents to you and to me.

This soft breeze
floating from the bay
blows all my troubles away.

Book in lap,
Coffee in hand,
Please understand -

if I always felt this way,
life would walk with a much sweeter sway.

Home is Homer.
Lovely summer aromas
of fish and salt;
visions of eagles and otters;
people who create and re-create,
forever giving more than they receive.
A city of art and style -
you'll go the extra mile
to stay in happy, hearty Homer.

Burn brightly.
Burn until your will is ash.
Let your essence cover the world
in wide, sweeping strokes,
scorching houses and forests as you go.
Let the fire in the pit of your stomach
devour your fears, your insecurities.
Let them be remnants of the past
and nothing more.

The red, orange, and yellow of tonight
will last forever.

It could be a bear, a hat, a plane -
the choice is yours to ascertain.

Kites zoom and roar
high above the crowds.
A sallow sun peeks through trees
and shines in hesitant rays
upon strollers and the mothers pushing them.

All the while,
the sky lays it's
flouncy, protective blues
across the world,
ensuring that no dream
is too much.

A shame, a pity -
that there shall be no sky
when we're buried six feet deep.

**** me if you must,
but don't take away my sky.

Cheeks flush,
red lips purse.
Eyebrows, thick and singular,
draw upwards in shock,
scandalized by my very existence.

Born in love,
and yet out
of all else.

Lacy blue bra
strewn across the floor
of an empty apartment.
All is still -
only dust particles
float through the air,
undisturbed by human troubles.

Shades hang open,
streams of sunlight filter in.
The rainy dew
of yesterday's downfall
lingers still.

The scent of waffles
wafts up the stairs.
Visions of
blueberries and strawberries and whipped cream
fill the eyes, nose, and mouth -
salivating for more.

Eyes snap open.
A day begins once more.

Poems are so fine.
I do them all the time,
sell 'em for a dime.
Such pretty, pretty rhymes.

Your sweet compliments
bring a flutter to my knees.
It's not out of politesse
that I smile and say, "Oh geez."

In your presence, I feel at ease,
though my mouth feels like cottage cheese.

Saying such things out loud is hard.
For me, this has always been my guard.

My favorite people
were met on a whim.
My favorite memories
were made on a whim.

The most splendid castles,
the most magnificent sunsets,
the sweetest kisses;
all were had and done and seen
on whims.

Don't tell me that I'm silly
for following my heart
and permitting my life
to blow along with the wind.

My life was made on a whim,
and it'll likely end the same way.

More wisdom than the psalms,
voice soothing like swaying palms
or the sweet melodies of Brahms.

Reminds me to wear long johns,
and that what is gold
once was bronze.
Taught me to be strong,
and to accept being wrong.

Has so much class,
but she's still such a bad-***
(even when I give her sass).
She's surely first class.
All the others she does surpass.

Through riot and loss,
she wore the cavalry's cross.
She'll show you who's boss,
all while reminding you to floss.

My type is tall
with dark hair
and dark eyes.

The whisper of ****** hair
on a jaw so square.
Leave the clean-shaven men
for other girls.

Smart and witty,
with music so gritty.
And a smile so sweet and wide.
Not sure what I implied,
but I suppose I'll now confide
that I'd be the Bonnie to your Clyde.

Her thoughts
grow like weeds
through swaying reeds.

In her head
exists a garden
as bright and as varied
as the tulips of Amsterdam.
Each canal lined with bikes,
the water flowing from one to the next.

If not careful, though,
that mind will overflow,
overgrow with the seeds
of past ill deeds.

She sits still now,
thumbing through her prayer beads,
pleading for the protection
of some modern-day Diomedes.

It's snowing in May.
What more is there really to say?
Droplets are drip-dropping on me
every which way.

I rush through the slippery streets,
and to my dismay,
I see a soaked-through toupee
on the head of a man having quite a bad day.

Oh, what a strange melee
is this snowy Tuesday.

Sometimes the world is so loud,
all I can hear is screaming.
But other days,
life quiets
and the Earth spins more slowly.
It is on these occasions
when one can at last hear
the crickets in the grass
and the bees buzzing through the air.
Flowers swishing in the wind, here and there.
Among the few humans, there is hardly a care.

It is on these quiet evenings,
with the moon so bright,
every face devoid of fright,
that living life seems quite all right.

But not tonight.

Glaciers, white and blue,
fill the spaces between me and you.
In a torn, faded photograph,
a happy family displayed
as they joke and laugh.

A mother's smile,
a father's firm grip
on that of his only daughter.
The gentle waves of water
and rocks the shade of emery,
lay the scene for this sweet, fleeting memory.
A brother pulls down ******* his hat,
the wind blowing it flat.

Each face a sweet montage of a life lived,
the wrinkled eyes showing all they've survived.

Father's dead now;
the mother holds her son,
their love an unspoken vow,
the likes of which
is broken now.

In this frozen photo, all of this remains unspoken -
a family of which I now have only this small token.

Our love was slow-roasting.
If we were chicken,
it would have fallen off the bone.

I can see now,
on this night
with it's moon as silky
as freshly laundered sheets,
that all I cared for was small.
And that my thinking them small
made them all the smaller.

There's no one to blame but me.
This, I now can see.

All indecencies, all sins
are forgiven.
Not by I, nor by God,
but by the moon itself.
The moon,
the only true witness
to the crimes of mankind.

The blood spilled,
the lies told,
the affairs had;
the moon saw them all,
yet he shone no less brightly
than before.
He, who knows
my crimes;
he, who tells all time.
He, who judges not.

The man in the moon.

Like a dried out pen,
you lay before me.
    Perhaps you served a purpose once,
    back in the days
    where leaves still blew
    through these Cadillac-filled streets.
Vanished and forgotten,
like a goldfish
in a bowl without food.
      You'll starve eventually
      from the poverty of your mood.
Like a torn photograph,
the image of you is scratched, incomplete,
a deflated soccer ball
lying somewhere in the street.
      
      A dried out pen
        can write no more,
           but it does not negate
             the works it wrote
                      once before.

Baby blue-eyed boy.
His softly curved lips
with the power to wreck ships.
So quick with a smile
that will never reach
those baby blue eyes.

Why so sad,
baby blue-eyed boy?

Can't you see
that those eyes
of yours hold all
the splendor of the sea?
Clams by the ocean side,
the flowing, green-blue hair of mermaids,
and soft, soothing waves.

Why so sad,
baby blue-eyed boy?

Lost sailors at sea,
and lovers
who will never love again.
Capsized dreams,
and stormy nights
with no end in sight.

Baby blue-eyed boy,
you may have
all the beauty of the sea,
but you have all the pain, too.

The stars,
the moon,
the never-ending,
ever-expanding
universe.

Two lovers joined
in ecstasy -
arms wrapped,
legs wrapped,
hearts wrapped.

If one burns up,
the other burns with them.

Like I loved coffee,
that's how I loved you.
Like the first cigarette of the day.
Or like a Beatles song
blasted on the radio
during a road trip
to nowhere in particular.
Like each slice of coffee cake,
cinnamon and pecans
delicately, deliciously curled
into every little streusel.
Like spring,
when the snow melts into water
and runs, rushes
past yellow-colored, polka-dotted rain boots
on a sun-soaked afternoon.
I loved you like I love you;
simply, completely,
without frills and without doubt.

I might be wasting my youth.
It didn't hit me until just now,
flipping through social media feeds.
I know it's false,
but it feels real.
The smiling faces,
the laughs, the loves.
They may not have it every second,
but they have it this second, right now.
And I don't.

I'll never be happier
than when I'm on the road.

A bit like Kerouac,
not trying to run away.
Just want to be free
like the river.
The mere thought makes me shiver.
Not knowing.
That's the rush.
Where will I sleep tonight?
Where will I go tomorrow?
It's anyone's guess,
and I like it that way.

I'm not running from you,
I'm running from me,
to a better version of myself.
You don't need to get it,
just accept it.

Wind in my hair,
smoke in my hand,
but no longer over my eyes.
These highs
don't go any higher.

Don't agonize over me,
just let me roam free.
It's where I'm meant to be,
can't you see?

I wish I knew what to say.
My feelings are like clay,
they bend every which way.
I spend nearly every **** day
just trying to be okay.

Maybe this is a cliche,
a girl who fights with her padre,
I keep going astray,
my issues I always downplay.

I wish I were a blue jay;
so I could just fly away.

Another, another.

These words bite and nip
at my heels.
You can't possibly know how this feels,
but you look at me
still with those disgraced eyes,
the likes of which
you don't even try to disguise.

You say it's all self-control,
as though that'll assuage my soul.
I worked my whole life to be good,
and it left me empty.

I'm an empty shell,
like Humpty Dumpty.
Someone cracked me open
and fried the yolk within.

So, when you ask me,
"Want another one?"

I'll say yes.

I never wanted to be young and stupid.
I longed for the respect of my elders,
and I achieved this through acting old,
even though my heart was young.

It's only now that I realize
being young and stupid
is a gift,
not a curse.
Being young and stupid
is permission to live
as wildly and as loudly
as you please.

So let's drink too much,
sing too loud,
and have too much fun

while we still can.

Goethe, he was an artist.
Schiller, Mozart, Beethoven.
Writers, musicians, painters all.
Even now I hear Chopin's call.
The tunes make my heart sing,
my soul dance.
I'm in a trance
when I hear those sweet melodies.
Like the sound of your voice,
it all makes joy
come rushing back to me.

Won't you stay,
play a little longer?
I may not be as gifted as you,
but I could be your muse,
if you were to choose
me to.

Hear the chimes ringing,
this sleepy Sunday singing.
Monday will bring persimmons,
and Tuesday a touch of snow.
Eyelids grow heavy,
the evening siestas are winning.
The trees shade are giving
and sweet scents are brimming
among these lovely Sunday trimmings.

Oh, what a fine Spring day.