A woman is like a flower;
She blossoms.
The petals of her soul stem down to her roots, and
The bee that rests upon "she loves me" is the one who reaps the honey.

dancer of the clouds,
ink of dream,
as if the sky, hushed
and utterly forlorn,
turned a pirouette.

A poem—
is just one more
scrap of paper
that has sailed off the table
in a bottle
with a cry for help.

Blurring the lines between the real and the fake.

Paint

(Puffy Paint)

Neon.
On me, an inspiration I'll never recall.
Maybe it was your face.

Time

(Time Release)

Exaggerating every finite speck of emotion.
Tearing us apart
only to sew us together, mixing up our parts
intrinsically linked.

The Park

(I Love You)

*******. I said that?????????????
I meant it.

Sitting outside there
In your shirt sleeves
With your coffee and your cigarette
Wearing those black Ray Bans
That I'd've hated on just about anybody else
You looked just like Jack Keroac.

I couldn't see your eyes
But I liked to think
That you were thinking
Thoughts and things that I couldn't even imagine.
That to you
The world was like one big tangled ball
Of Christmas lights
To sort through
And fix up a little.

When I turned
You were already gone
Your broad hand
Grasping that cigarette.

that’s what I want to do

forget this minuet around  
     over     through
situations/words/
phantom
blink of tears

just 2 foot lengths
spreading wide
for a 12 pound maul/
random tangle trap of hair
for beads of honest sweat

excluding our palms,
our skins
are too tough.
The answer—
The balm?

Split wood:
ash, maple, pine, cedar,
elm, hickory, apple
    
heave   grunt   slam   crack   silence

Work with me/
                  with me/
aim for the perimeter
and the heart will break open
                   smooth      clean
            still full of life
and ready to burn

i hear springs creak
underneath the weight
of hips working together

where lips begin
parting over
heating flesh

fingers desperately
grasp for something
to hold in all sound

until both bodies
tremble and mold
into one.

These are the days when
nothing feels like a poem,

when biscuit crumbs
form a cloud in the bottom
of a teacup and you know
what the week will hold,

when april showers
mutate into bath time,
and the trees drip fat drops
that find their way to chill your skin.

When you hear bad news
from no news, and each second
leeches all your hope, one
vertebrae at a time

until at the base of your spine,
you submerge.