The buses riding
with open doors,
and the days long for
no discernible reason
other
than the tilting
of the axis,

and the leaves stay
and are
green,
temporarily,
and the birds sing
because
they sang before:
not for any love
of the music.

When the time comes,
as it
will,
to pick your
poison,
don't be
stupid:
pick the one
that tastes
the best.

Poems are very much
like farts
in the wind:
ethereal
inconsequences
that may linger
more or less
before fading
away
to nothing,
although,
sometimes,
they may leave
something
behind
for posterity -
so you better
be
careful.

If you look around you
hard enough
you may barely
notice
everything
slowly moving a bit
further
out of order,
getting progressively
****** up.

It’s the natural state
of things:
a chaos clock
locked in perpetual
motion
of erosion,
or worse.

Or better:
sometimes
it does end
in fireworks.

Love is a cat,
the cuteness
and the claws,
or the way it rubs itself
into your life
not out of necessity:
it’s a matter of appetite,
mostly,
in the beginning.

Love must be a cat,
the elegance of
subtlety,
a passing shadow against past walls
in the quiet of the stars,
chasing
or being chased.

Love is surely a cat so,
when it fails,
when it falls,
breaking something
on impact,
******* up big
time
trying to catch some young
bird,
it should not look
to us
as tragic,
but merely
amusing -
but it is then
we must remember:
the wounds will be
ours
to lick.

From a certain distance,
we still laugh:
or pretend
that we do.

Arriving home from a night of drinks,
I think I finally understood
something
about the nature of
death
in a tangible sense:
being at a party to the point
you are so dulled
by all the
outside
you decide to go home and blackout for the night,
not caring what you miss -
you are done,
tired,
your feet hurt
(probably your joints too)
and you just want the release
from all that
too much.

Of course,
when you do it at a party,
you fully expect to be back
on your feet
the next morning
(more like afternoon);
to go on,
to continue
for there to be
other parties.

The other difference
being,
when in happens to life,
you know
you won't have to listen,
the very next day,
to water cooler Joe
saying
that just after
you left
the party "exploded",
the music was
"freakin' awesome, dude!",
everyone went "craaaaazy",
and "Cindy went off to blow some guy in the bathroom"
and, "oh man", it could have probably been "you"
had "you" stuck
around.

A love triangle
is,
much more
commonly,
a love
line segment
with three
(usually not
equidistant)
points.