My dear,
I will destroy you

I will hold you tight until your soul aching,
I will bite your beautiful lips
By my hugs your lungs cannot take breath

My dear,
Those pains are the only pain you deserve
From me

I wrote you a poem,
But you never saw it.
All those years ago,
Folded in my pocket.
It didn't say much.
It was short and it was sweet.
It said just enough,
Explained my thoughts complete.
I can still remember
Just how it goes:
I said that I loved you,
But now you'll never know.

I meant to be cliche,
Slip it in your notebook.
Something you could read
When you were alone, but
I guess I chickened out,
Or perhaps I just forgot
Because the next thing I know
I sent it through the wash.
Couldn't read a thing.
Ruined, had to go.
I wrote that I loved you,
But now you wouldn't know.

Never was the one
To discuss my feelings.
Couldn't open up,
Reveal vulnerabilities.
So instead I wrote them down.
It seemed safe that way.
But I knew if you read it
The result would be the same.
So I never tried again,
I let it go.
Still knew that I loved you,
Relieved you'd never know.

Perhaps it was fate
Or the things I couldn't say,
But we reached that point
Where you went your separate way.
Now I only write
For myself and strangers.
Anonymity means
Very little danger.
And I understand
Why you had to go,
But I'll love you forever,
Even if you never know.

REINCARNATION OF THE DEAD WORDS

The typewriter.
King of the ******* tip.

Having an alphabet
to command

an army of words
but someone pulled its teeth.

Extracted its speech.
Defeat.

At my feet metal letters
lay strewn

saying:
nothing.

K  IL trampled
into the *******.

A ?
drowning in muck.

An !
crying out for help.

An angry "e"
still raising a tiny fist

in rusted defiance
against the vastness

of an evening
sky.

I scoop up as many metal letters
as I can find

rooting in the refuse
for a precious "i".

An 'i' that is not to be
found.

Was this the revenge
of a failed writer

or an outdoor
art installation

in the private gallery
of a ******* tip.

WAITING FOR GOD...
knows who?

The snipped/snapped-
-off-letters

refugees now
in my pocket.

I am their home.

I bury them
under an apple tree.

They rise through the roots
bearing fruit

year after year

I eat the words
they give me.

Speech flowering
upon my tongue.

I see your face
I hear your voice.
Memories come rushing back
Yet they couldn't feel further away.
I miss you every day
I have so much more to say
But the words just won't come out
Even now, you still take my breath away
Nothing romantic between us,
Just being able to put the masks down
You still see me. You still don't run
You still love me and I wonder how that could be.  
You actually did love me, for real.
The first that actually said the words like that
The moment you said it, I knew at once you meant it.
We will never have what I saw and I am okay with that
As long as I can hold onto the once in awhile chats and the memories of those long nights and poetry, I will be okay.  
I love you
I miss you
Be well.
Smile often
Laugh and sing without holding back.
You are still the most beautiful man I have ever known.

in the sky, I don’t see him, the Big Guy,
the “G” man, but I found someone who did,  
posing the query, “What is God?”  

he answered his own question
with twenty words, plus one--no mention of the sun,
the stars, or how HE ignited the Big Bang  

but many
wispy words about love, glory
justice and joy  

I can't claim to comprehend you,
wedded to agnosticism I seem to be
though I truly would like to see:

something behind the
sunken eyes, bloated bellies of babies
covered with impatient flies    

something in the blood trails
of San Bernardino, Paris, Beirut
Khe Sanh, Iwo Jima, the Marne  
Antietam, ad infinitum  

who can read those red riddles  
and help me understand--maybe more
than 21 words are required  

though I am hardly inspired  
when the words to describe HIM/HER/IT  
don’t mention milk except as human kindness
or do nothing to explain our blissful blindness
to blood dripping from stakes driven
so long after Calvary’s crosses