Funny how
I write poems on my phone in class
Inconspicuous enough
Ignored enough
To be passed off as texting
Camouflage
Blend into the line where cool meets socially acceptable
Cowardly fingers pause in thought
What metapho-
Er
Reply
To type out
He notices
Smiles
I am ashamed
Of either my actions
Or my cowardice
And I'm not sure which
And I'm not sure why

My hands are cold
And lonely like my soul
My lips are untouched
Craving for a kiss, wanting more
My body itches
Waiting for you to be by my side
My life is dull without you
Because you are the center
And love of my life

n.j.

Zen monks sit quietly on
stern pillows of effervescent soul.
I do not,
My patchwork pillow is filled with
styrofoam-- artificial.

Hasidic Rabbis rub their tired pious books
adding more wear marks from years worrying
which appear like a foreign tongue on the cover.
My book is full of yellowed, empty pages
sitting, dust-ridden on a abandoned shelf.

The head of the Shiite rests against solid stone
The penitent countenance like a mirror of Mecca.
My forehead bears only the reddened mark of my forearm
from the vibrant narcolepsy of life.  

The Atheist sits in the coffee house
lecturing the disinterested Baristas
about the tomfoolery of religion.  
I sit alone,
nodding sagely,
sipping wine that tastes
flat against my tongue.

What does a depth of spiritual belief offer?
There is an unwritten, unquantifiable,
essence that belief gives the human.
A depth of meaning, like
a shot of penicillin to a case of chlamydia.

you who keeps my bed warm
when i wander in the night
you who keeps my mind blank
with your ****** distractions
you who too often asks me about my feelings
like a shy child in the classroom
too scared to get the answer wrong
i only have one feeling
it is tangled up in the dark matter of my mind
a loss of a life, a loss of a love
the life was mine
the love was hers
your questions are shadows
on an empty bedroom wall
because i can't describe her in words anymore.