I love my illness
and I am pretty sure
that it loves me too.

No I am certain
that beyond any doubt
my sickness is the only
true love that I have.

But I do worry and doubt
that it may be the only
love I ever find.

I love it because
maybe it will lead
to another life where
others will love me too.

I'll be able to thank
my one friend for making
all of this possible
for letting me find
others that will
like me for me.

Even if others
never know
that it was really my friend bulimia
that let me
finally be loved by them.

I was too busy
taking everything seriously
that I forgot to the see the comedy.

To the unlikely Amtrak ride
the one with people
acting like cartoons.

With an announcer
over the intercom
smushing words together--
saying we'll arrive in Lodi
and then in blah blah location.

To the conductor
whom
speaks to us as children,
because to him
we look like long time
traveling companions.

He plays with our
destinations
and notices that we're going
to two different locations.

We've only known
each other existed from
the 30 minutes we rode
side by side on the bus before the train.  

No matter the time.
We've become limited-less
as it was too easy to speak
and impossible to stop.  

All the truths
we've shared will never be gone
the moment just as we felt in it
can never truly come to an end.
As long as the train keeps moving
our moment will forever trek on.

Even after I have left the ride
and you've finally fallen aleep
without my company to stir you awake.

It may never happen again
just like the dreams you're having
right this moment.
But least we came to speak
for the shortest
of train rides.

Don't
it's that simple.

Really, curiously, and honestly.  

You think that you want to do so.

Boy oh boy!
Girl oh girl!

You both assumed with
only a smile that they longed for more.

Their genuine smile
and hearty laugh
was more than a stranger would
ever offer to a nobody.

But to me
everyone is a somebody
cheesy as cheese fries
without the fries.

That's what make my day
meeting and greeting--
sadly I've assumed a false identity,
if only they would let it go.

And take the chance
to make an honest friend.

Finding true kindness
is the hidden temple
it's an undecipherable world within the words
of true believers;
the passionate philosophers
of an older age.

These philanthropic peoples
they had a sense of purity
that could reckon with the likes of god--
not an almighty being beyond our recognition
but those deities standing on all but mighty pedestals.

They were able to rampart the tides
of none the likes of celestial beings
instead they tore into the minds
of lesser possibilities
that were yet a greater conquest to take.

What I speak is they were trying to figure out
you and me you and I
the feats of our brains
and the limitations as such.

With this they probably found
the same thing out as I have with everyone I touch.
Girls and Boys hold egos
that kind words are more than enough.

Even my poems
do not speak eloquence
or a personal soliloquy--
my words lack the lush
and brazen must
that all else seem to speak.

To hold a pearl
is something to behold
a precious mistake
bore into beauty.

I speak muzzled
ideas that are simply
monologues; meant
to only hinge
ideas together.

They do not
let you understand me,
but give a soft or bleak
ensemble of demenor
of someone I've been trying to find.

Going to war
was a piece of cake
compared to coming back

In war I always knew
at least a few things
would always happen.

It became my home
because my family lived there
my comrades became
the stability to continuing on.

Each indifferent day
was a lasting piece of our humility to living
and our bond-ship to pride.  

I slept in trenches,
in the open air,
under the protection of some thin vail
that'd we all make it back together.

Here in the common wealth
I sleep in alleyways
and under bridges
with the aspirations
that someone will spare some change.