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It's easier to talk about
bacon-wrapped pineapple,
than all of the things
no one ever wants
to talk about.
I feel out of reach
Of the things you want to teach
My desperation shows on my face
That you are not in my place
I want your power over me
So blind that I cannot see
I won't notice the error of my way
Please let me be your desperation today
Give me some sign I'm yours
Write me into your stories of lore
Make me your main character too
The one who triumphs over you
I will steal whatever you want me to
Hire me, instruct me what to do
I'm reaching for your hand
Just tell me where to land
The desperation of living
Flat Frisbees in flight
Beach blankets bundled by boys
Love letters litter
Us
Dreams of summers past
Beach day, kids in tow
A smile, a laugh, your face aglow
Fast forward to now
You barely glance my way
Silent dinners are normal
How did we get this way
Why drag this out
It gets harder each day
We scream, we shout
Yet for us I still pray.
I once had a friend whose great-grandfather was a partner of J.P. Morgan. My friend had grown up in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He was a good man, and you wouldn't have known he was heir to a vast fortune, except for his anamnestic autos. In fact, he eschewed the affected life. He was an organic farmer outside of Lawrence, Kansas. I mean he really was a farmer. He was up at 6 and drove a tractor til sunset. He and I would get together from time to time eating tapioca pudding at Denny's and, of course, chatting. The one idiosyncrasy that gave away his untold wealth was anamnestic autos. To the side of his modest farm house was a field within which were old antique cars spread out as if they were cattle, but they were not. There was an Alpha Romeo, a Horsch, a Lamborghini, a Maserati, and a Ferrari. My friend would get an impulse to buy a certain antique car, and because he had the money, he'd buy it. But then after enjoying it for a time, he literally put it out to pasture. The scene reminded me of a painting by Salvador Dali. He never talked about his fortune, but he often ordered a second tapioca pudding.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Waited by the phone
When you stopped coming around
But no calls came through
A new number you've found
So I'll quietly slip back,
into my loneliness inside
I'll take with me your memory
And a broken heart I will hide.
if I talk
it’s like I'm falling in the answer
everything I say is a quiet question to myself
sweaty hands
messy hair
baggy clothes
harmed lips
and
eyes looking down

yet I do poetry
but nothing helps my clarity
It does help,
but who on earth wants an answer
in rhymes and metaphors?

Tell me.
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