My love for you is not the kind in movies.

I have no chronic hurt when you are away

there is no ebbing at injustices, no silent blazing flame in my spirit.

I am marked with no letter, you are not inked to my heart.

But i wish you the moon on the blackest of nights

I wish you the sun on the coldest of days

and I wish you thoughts of me when you feel you are alone.

I watched a leaf fall from a floating place in time
landing on the wet ground with the rest of the refuse.
She took the money and ran
(or did you expect her morality to beat her poverty into
a docile submission)
I watched the clouds block the burning moon,
cementing night into the earth and
taking the light all for themselves.
(born on the street but playing in the gutter
with the rest of the rich, sparkling rats)

if the bottoms of our feet
were repeatedly coated in black ink,
then someone at least would start so see
how much I fall behind.

like the shadow that begins
side by side but slowly lengthens
stretches, pulls away from
your footsteps, I fall behind.

the distance between our strides
leaves clues of one stronger, one weaker,
and it's unclear if the person ahead is faster
or the other is just slower and falls behind.

if i could paint my feet to see
the difference in our gaits that lead
you to be so ahead of me, I would
but I could never stop to look back
without falling behind.

So I'm sitting here
in my space
and it really is space,
outer space,
and if I listen to it,
it sounds
like the spaceship
which it is,
and since
I have unplugged
the television
and turned off
the radio,
I can hear
the unusual sounds
of this unearthly, earthly spaceship
humming,
and when I listen closely
I can hear
the hum and high-pitched hiss
of my brain
and nervous system,
as I go traveling outward
into the vastness
of the universe
in this spaceship
called my house
in the suburbs.

The old guys
wrote about
the great outdoors
and the beauty of nature,
but, you know,
nature may become
completely inhospitable
sooner than we think,
so I suggest
that we should start
thinking about
the great indoors,
and the beauty of artificiality,
because artificial things
are none other
than nature, transformed,
so maybe
we should go
on adventures
in our own houses
like a modern Thoreau,
who finds the transcendent
in a cup of coffee
or a telephone.

An innocence is within you
If you believe to care

The porcine
The polluted
The users
The diluted.

Don't waste your pearls