little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

the world is so ugly
and the ugliness is inside
me too

i wish you would listen
and my words were not released
never to be received, into the open
air.
and you would look me in the eyes
with meaning in yours,
and apologize.

passing the rivers, the construction
sites, the fields, the trees,
I watch a truck pass in a shape I have never seen.
I see a girl with decorated skin
speed ahead to my left.
I pass plains and fields of dead trees.
there are lone buildings near broken
telephone poles,
and as I traverse the length of
this white lake, a similiar bird lifts
itself up from the water and into the
sky, as if it knew I had arrived, as if it were putting on a show just for me.
as if it were all just for me.
as if it were all just for me.

everyday i write and i write
and i hope something great flows from my pen.
i wish someone would read my poems with wide eyes and finish with tears.
i long for my love to read those that are about her
and they'll make her run back to me.
i wonder if my writing will be remembered
or thrown into the wind with my ashes.

i want to know the world.
i want to know myself
i want to write.

I yearn to move,
move towards the road
which I pray will save me.
I never saw a light
like those that speed towards me
from the other side of those great, yellow lines.

Pull from the essence of Dean Moriarty
and move, move, move!
I find myself stuck in the mud
of this broken town and wish the flood would come again.
The flood that could whisk me away,
and I would wake up on my back
anywhere in the world
ready to take on life
in a fistfight.