It was always a grocery store
or shopping mall
when I imagined the first time I would see you again
we might have happened to turn down the same aisle and turned to see each other
I would have asked you how you were
we would exchange lies about how we were okay
great even, moving on and not looking back
shift slightly to cover up our new scars
and try to smile
I would ask if you were happy
you would say: yes
I would say: good
and after we parted I would decide I am much better off without you by my side

But last night was the first time in 6 months that I had heard your voice
it infiltrated my subconscious
snaked its way around my throat so I couldn't breathe
if you still had my heart it wanted so bad to come back to me I felt it racing in my chest; running for safety
my eyes met your eyes
you smiled, a sad smile
and waved
and I just….waved back
shaking
you knew me too well not to notice
but  still
you left
I fell to the ground
a blur of people and arms around me
and I think I cried
maybe
I should have yelled after you
"I keep all my promises"

&

"I miss you too much to forget"

Lids open with a snap
to thick, almost solid,
streams of  moonlight

In the silver haze,
Black holes peer
from an alabaster face

Complete paralysis
crushes my hope of escape
every skin cell stitched to the sheets

My mind terrified,
my body tingling
with unexpected relaxation

Waves of calm roll
through every muscle
turning me to nothing
feeling as if my bones
have vanished with
the interrupted dream

The swing of a medallion
through beams of static light
My eyes swivel in their sockets
Skinny fingers snap
Everything turns to black

I sit and feel... Different.
Some would have inspiration, some would have peace,
And some would be able to think about anything with
That clanking of cups and the whirr of a coffee machine.
But I can't describe how strange I feel sitting here.
Maybe the people sitting here aren't supposed to be.
The snobs giggling and gossiping in the corner,
The waft of marijuana coming in from just outside of the door.
This isn't a normal place. And I
Am not a stereotypical poet.
I write paintings in my mind and draw poems with my lips.
And, right now, they aren't encasing the rim of a coffee mug.
I don't have the money.
And I don't have the rhyme scheme to
Make fun of those who don't get it.

six months to the day,
of treading along.
like many good things,
an Internet accident.

180 days can be converted
to one of these units:
15,552,000 seconds
259,200 minutes
4320 hours
180 days
25 weeks
(rounded down)

six months here,
a fortune of time,
goodly to behold.

new faces
from new places,
now crowd the heart
that has no shape,
for it expands daily,
making room for
more of you.

your welcome
welcomes more than poems.

ces triestes,
ces chansons de mon cœur,
don de la liberté,
doués pour vous,
dans la célébration de mon
Jour de l'Indépendance

some fingernail torn
from darker memories,
from fears of the future.
others from eyes to paper
ink spilled quickly,
lest the letters,
remain among the
stillborn ashes
hid in the caverns
of the man's mouth.

the ink in the bottle,
that spilt,
gotta be drops of
mixed blood.
by anybody's definition.

perhaps you sense the fearful
truths that lie within,
some yet to be invoked,
unvoiced, unyoked,
for which my concealer
in actuality is a
point-the-way revealer.

all in. good time.

Yet, never met a poem
did not like,
for the man in the beast
is just like {you, man}.

my only excuse for
to having not read
all of yours,
is oft thine stop me hot,
diverting me
to spill some more,
oh child of mine.

convinced still,
is the man,
that the secret
to this poetry racket,
is to never ever stop
laughing at yourself,
loving all the parts of you,
secretly and
secretly, as well,
in the open wide.

so you feed the beast
that devours me,
for restless are the
words that need a home.

someone said to me,
you are one of those
who are
nostalgic for
the future.

restless is the man inside
the beast, restless is the
beast that is the man,
who hates the word I.

With this sole exception.

**I thank you.