i find myself exhaust'd
without words to fill
the gaps between breathes
standing in a garage
scavenging ashtray for
more cigarette than ****.
feelings of a cut and run
history. always cyclical, always
flooding. again, repeating.
i may not be able to
tell the future, but
i will laugh should we make it
together. my memories
have been lost before, never
quite wiped clean.
i once could live.
these days writ of longings,
of fated desperations, writ
of corner'd separations
while eyes haze and lids droop.
while connections are made
between the breaks in
statements you had to say.
lemme be straight, i am done.
taken to apathy. absconding
with nil thought of leaving
negative remembrances behind.
leaving yellow-paged notebooks
of a past life.
days of the deifiers, days of their
fat-trimming inquisition. For
the flesh lusteth against Spirit,
and the Spirit against the flesh.
and those were scrawnier days.

There is a color
in the sky
late in the afternoon
that would escape
the eye of Picasso.

There is comfort
in that color
and I need it to
embrace me
and make me strong
so I can become
that color.
You.

Therewasthesoundlike(
even though you just broke her)
stillsmiling(and your fingers            R

blud                               ugly

and smelling like                                       )


the sea;

bREaKin,G

on rocks

in the hot Summer

when the tide runs out

anditlaysflat

hot on its stomach

(with its *** in the air
                                       )

theslowlybeginstorot

seaweed and gurgling

butstillsmiles(a very meek


                            rill (one only)



runs down its thigh

Rightbehindtheknee)collectsinto
a shoal



                                     and



                                                 "morePlease"

ugly is more

real pretty than is

'cause pretty
(though skin and because, also is)

always but ugly
inside always too


always
(always)

Winter snow is so high.
to jump out into it
is to jump into the sky.

The woman downstairs
has nowhere to go
as of tomorrow.

What will the universe grant her,
what is it, does she need faith?

Spirit people floating
like snowflakes in the air.

The woman downstairs
thinks worried thoughts,
contemplating the street
and its harshness.

Could I be witnessing
a fall from Grace.

© 2011