you will go your way
despite my protests
no use lamenting
what was never promised
the sun rides low the horizon
soon it will not clear the treetops
storms gather in the northern sea
needled wind to scattered seed
hoary frost on yellowed grass
dark leaves in mirrored puddles
a suspended death
crystalline and indeterminate
there is no fire hot enough
to stave off the first chill
of a careless winter
the numb hibernating sleep
soft gray melting days
the desperate wish
to regain summer

I was never the type
of child that obeyed
much  of anything;
not even the many
times  I was told
not to stare into
the evening sun
when I felt
alone.

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

love her oohs and ahs
music to my ears
her vociferousness
we parlayed and drank several hours away
laughed and smoked a blunt
and her hand was right there
I was expecting her to pull it away
when I reached out and touched it
she was a lady but
let me grasp her
and she was quite a lady
my ears are ringing

We should be hardened cynics,
Putting plywood on our windows,
Yellow tape around our homes,
Cautioned shouting,
Never doubting
Who is number One,
In a race that's nearly done.
The finish line's stopped moving,
We hope to be disproving
The infallibility of man.
And thus we sit waiting,
Anticipating chaos,
Spinning the wheels of commerce,
Leaving treadmarks on the innocents
Who needn't to be literate
To mark their X to obliterate.
Like a ****** on a mission,
With cross-hairs on the decision.

Enveloped tightly in a space
that once provided enough
but never promised a lifetime.
She twists and unfurls
beneath its surface,
ignorant of even her own colors,
her shape, her scent, her purpose.
And when she breaks open,
it is not without fear of wilting.
It is not without fateful wonder.
Still, she blooms,
catching the sun
just as the universe intended.