what I needed for seven years
after I broke the mirror was
not electricity, not a word from
my kinfolks, not water or
a dry place to sleep.
Food and cigarettes were
needed but gave way if
they got in the way
of me getting high.
All I needed then was another
imagining I was getting high.
As I peeped through foil curtains
and waited impatiently when
the buzz wore off for the next hit to knock
on my door. I am surprised
now by how I ever made it here,
looking back at how I was
a total mess. How a few good people
saw me as potentially good.
I don't know how they and me made it
through.

can a man rationalize reality
from superstition,
any more than a scientist
can draw conclusions from one
test?
Can a philosopher from his
neurons figure all others reason?
Is a chemist simply
an arranger of complex molecules?

Can a preacher from
the propositions of one faith
accurately portray this phenomena?

Can a  poet leap above and through many realms
many hoops many disciples
and tell it just as real?

Can a songwriter write
a grand piano?

is different on a Saturday night.  Changing thing it is
on take out the garbage night.
Let us paint it in passion for a minute,
the blood engorging every nerve in both bodies
firing like they never did before, all the cries the passion
when that is the simplest part.
Get a few weeks on that flower may wilt,
I pray it does not, yet from experience,
I see love as when a diaper needs changed
or you lose your job or the bills have to be paid and
the pantry is empty.
And the couch smells like that stray dog you feed.
The kitty litter needs changed.
The babies need a bath and neither of you have slept for
twenty-four hours.
The bathroom counter is filled
with a mixture of hair, and the soap in the bath needs combing.
And you find time before passing out
to say
I love you more than yesterday

our love scattering
like the song of the dark,

we are within our
wind-blown castle walls
where wild roses ramble,

we can hear
the sea
its withering song
like voices from
the dead,

our hearts, misty
companions,
beckon to each other
no strangers
to the pulse of love.

I feel like I am one of those sad songs
nobody wants to hear at a party
because they wake up memories,
open wounds,
make you bleed inside
And because in a few moments they ****
Everything that’s left of you.

Because they hurt.

It takes time to write a poem.
Nothing's happened for some years.
Wish I had some of a story.
Nobody wants the empty tears.
Never knew if I had emotions.
Never knew there was something to write down.
Stuck to more everyday stories.
Now my life turned around.

I hold
my cards hard
to my chest
on this night
that is oh so close

My teeth
stained from
coffee and nicotine

I share
a strawberry
beer with the
occasional fruit fly

The air is still
not a breeze
to be had