If you are an aging book tossed on an empty shelf
Left to dust,
I will be the librarian who remembers you.

Even in my graying days and wrinkles,
I will find you within the musty bindings
Upon the shelves.
I will pluck you off,
Bypassing all of the others
That try and grab me as I walk
The narrow aisles.
I will push them back into their place
For you are the only one I have eyes on.
I will find you and blow the dust
Off your shoulders.
I will run my fingers over you,
Feeling your cover, your back, your spine
Before opening you and sifting through your pages,
Reading your story and discovering your scars
Where the corners have been folded over.

But I will love you long before
I ever open your cover and begin to read.

this city never sleeps
this city never cries
secret's that it keeps
beyond smoggy skies

car alarms
gun shots
people screaming
parking lots

this city doesn't feel
this city's not afraid
these scars never heal
these sounds never fade

jackhammer
news stand
police sirens
news van

this city never sleeps
this city never cries
you can hear it on streets
you can see it in their eyes

A steamy trail of particulate vapor issues from her lips
tracing the outline of her silhouette and rising
up,
up,
it diffuses into nothingness

Don’t listen to what your parents or teachers tell you, kids-

smoke is very ****.

she exhales again

slithers languidly through the still air
stretching for something-
rolls across my coffee table
like dunes in fast-forward
drips off the edges-

-gone.

She puffs a thick ring at me
it crosses through the void space toward me;
I reach out to touch it- to grasp it
and it dissipates;
she grins-

such teasing.

Smoke is-
and
is not-
it traces the airflow-
the negative space
like a jungle cat pretending to be
the light between the leaves

she knows this
and she can see that I know she does

Smoke
is why I am so captivated
So fascinated
so mesmerized
so transfixed
by her
and in general-

by women.

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

It is all a little harder
than it looks,
and I'm afraid it will
never work out
—just too different,
you and I--

There is a reason
that the sun and the
moon never touch.
You are just beginning
and I am coming
to a close.

No, you do not want
someone like me.
I am beat up, broken.
Go, find yourself a nice boy
with a plan,
with a trust fund;
someone to rely on.

You don't need
someone like me.
It is much harder
than it looks
and it might very well may
never work out between us.
These open fields are ripe
for the taking,
a pretty little thing like you
could have your pick.

You don't want someone
like me, but that is not easy
to say because all that I want
is you, you, you.
It is not easy at all,
so many trials and
complications,
no, no, no…

It is a little harder than
it looks to love someone.