we never write as much when we are in love
and if we do write as much, we never write the same way
we get so much more boring
we could write a sad poem every day
and it would be much more interesting than an
everything-is-perfect poem
happiness has very little substance
have you ever noticed that most mainstream music is
aggressively depressing?
we write when there's something missing
or when we feel cold toward the world
and want to stick it to the man with a good 'ol *******
a writer in love will only produce a masterpiece if who they love
doesn't love them back
falling in love with someone that loves you back feels like having
everything you need
and there becomes no reason to write because there is no need to write
most people feel misunderstood when they're sad
and people only want to soak themselves in art if it makes them feel
understood
so, art has got to be sad too, hasn't it?

I may be clueless at times and difficult in some moments but let me tell you something I'm not, yours. I'm not yours, that's my worst flaw.

Just above a waistband
sits a most peculiar thing.
The most common human blemish
whose lauds we oft forget to sing.
Some are small and dainty,
pushed neatly in like a dimple
in the desert of skin.
Others hemorrhage outward,
squishy and pale,
the extra flesh bloated
by strange and unnamed
****** juices.
Often adorned with a jewel or a stone,
the awkward interruption
of  the otherwise plain torso
is unconsciously celebrated,
for it serves us all
a greater purpose.
Reminding each person
from where he came.
The living proof that we are all connected,
at one point or another,
to someone else.

Absentmindedly
I foreplay with nature
and finger the air, contemplate
that even the bananas
appear to be spooning
while two oranges,
nestle in their woven
straw pod,for heavens sake!
even the pink pan and brush set
are celebrating their design
of fitting, matching,belonging,
together,and those ivory bowls
see, how one is carried,
the other sheltered,
and dont get me started
on the shoes, the boots
the pairs,oh my god
the pairs...

burning time as if it were a drug you destroy me

in spring when there is nothing but the melting snow and the bare brown twigs and life ready to exhale
there is no flower for the bee to buzz in so he comes after me and I puff up

the summer makes them greedy with blooms to fight over and nests to gaurd and, tending to my own business,
they sting me anyway for being and i puff up

summer days get shorter and blackberries ripen and i gather heavy friuts and the branches bounce back,
and there are the bees consumed in their work and this time i am stung only by thorns

and finally autumn comes and i bite into that first crispy apple and juice runs down my wrist and my hands are sticky and sweet and bees come wildly swarming around me like a halo

and we are happily drunk with the joy of autumn together

a daring mountaineer
ran out of lonely peaks
and women he could brag to

he met a wild woman
just as tired
of her narcissistic journey

they attached
and hoped
they were in love

this projection
became their Everest
with no summit

they ate crackers and soup
listened to talk radio
fell asleep wondering

they sighed in unison
quit dreaming
of mountaintops

The constellations hide tonight.
The only light I can see is from dim porch  bulbs  from far off houses.  They've
been neglectfully left on  while their weary owners rest, and they flicker
relentlessly, threatening to leave me in the darkness.

It's just me and the pines tonight; their silhouettes towering like deities over
me.  A coyote wails in the distance, his cry carrying over miles. I lay back
onto the grass and mourn with him. Together,  we howl into the night, our
tormented wails evaporating into the charcoal sky.