On crimson tides we ebb and flow
no technicolor dreams to show
the darkness falls at our behest
as from our hands the senses wrest

take the tincture to ease the pain
release the heart from this dark refrain
shadows revoke our light of day
to incumbent solace we must sway

He looked around
at the all the faceless
people, oblivious
to the notion
that they were but
a disturbance
a flicker
a fault
a whimper
in the grand scheme
of things
and he wished
that he too could
take part in their quiet
unassuming disposition

I didn't believe in paper cuts
much like I didn't believe in love
until one day as I turned the pages
of a rather flimsy paperback
bound together
more so by the story it held
between its yellowing pages
than by its tattered spine
In my hurry to rush forward
with the other lives
I found myself so invested in
I felt a stinging burn pierce
the flimsiest part of my index finger
that seemed separated from the blood
(that was with such impertinence
bursting forth from my veins)
by the smallest stretch of skin
I watched the crimson pool
and drip reluctantly onto
the unsuspecting paper
and realised in that moment
you don't fall in love
you stumble into it, face-first
and feel the singeing burn afterward

Don't tell me
I'm pretty
like one of your french girls
don't do that
don't tell me I'm beautiful
I don't want to hear it
you'll tell me that
and I'll believe it
because I know
just as much as you do
I believe it now
and I'll even believe it
a month hence
when you shout out
in front of all your friends
that I'm an ugly *****
and I'll smile at your impunity
and delete your number off my phone
but a few days later
when you're a little less drunk
you'll see the mistake you made
and then you'll realize
what you really had to tell me
was not that I'm some sort of
flawless celestial creature
but
that I'm the most interesting woman
you've ever ******* known
and then you'll see
why I know I'm beautiful.

If the flicker of a flicker of a flicker
in the farthest corner of my heart
could cause such unseemly eruptions
inside the inside of my insides
that leave me breathless
even months after
can you begin to imagine
the unholy mess
the unearthly calamity
that would unfold
if the spark of a spark of a spark
were to blind my eyes
with their mere fortuitous existence?

Some days to the world
I am the thunder
Clapping at the lightning I see in others
And on some days
I am the lightning
Striking out, in awe of my own strength
But on most days
I feel like the cloud
That holds within it
The sound and the fury
Of the thunder and the lightning
With no ******* idea
What to do with it all.

the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...

we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.

I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...

and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.

the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.