People only ever want to ask me about
the poetry -
those verses about
busted up noses in outer space;
about the pros working
way down passed
the corner of Broad and Main;
about fistfights and hard, hard drinking.
But I built a flowerbed this weekend...
Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks
in a crescent moon shape,
filled with the blackest of soils.
The sweat of toil.
The digging.
The planting.
Exotic grasses. Asian maybe?
Purple and yellow flowers.
Zinnias or some **** thing.
All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch.
It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands
instead of blood.
No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.

I have been ready and willing
to give myself,
my all,
to someone - not just anyone -
that would accept.
I have tried,
been true and honest,
present and willing
and loved in the process.
I'm not ashamed of those I've come to love,
maybe just disappointed
that we wanted different things,
were on different pages.
But I'm sure there's a reason
that will reveal itself in time.
I'm not cynical or bitter.
Maybe I would have been years ago,
not now.
I still put myself out there,
bear my vulnerability for the world.
I am afraid, of course,
as we all are and should be,
but I know nothing great comes
without time.
So, for now,
I'll bear my loneliness
and continue to live
forthrightly
with honest intentions
and careful thoughts.

I dont know you,
I dont know your smile,
Your laugh,
Or your pain.

What struggles and trials,
That have brought you to me,
Reading my poem,
Hearing my heart.

My heart that breaks for your pain,
And cries for your wounds.

I dont know you,
But I wish I could stand
Between the wall of guilt and shame,
And the shivering,
Quivering outline of your heart.

I wish I had the words to heal you,
I won't pretend I do.

Just know that you're not worthless,
You're worth something to me.

I miss,
staying in my room,
on rainy afternoons,
making each other wet.

Kiss my palm

My hand touches your cheek
My thumb caresses your bottom lip.

You can't help but finally smile at me.

You run your calloused hands
Though my wild tangle of
Dark fire hair.

You pull me close.

It is not what I expect.

You tell me
"I told you to forget."

I sigh,
"When have I ever listened?"