this is the last time you'll drag your dagger through my mind
im silencing the thoughts
readjusting the locks
just to keep you out.
don't try and break in,
theft is in your blood and im not yours to steal.
your mask won't trick me the next time
your face is engrained in my mind
and i'll never forget
i could never forget
i'm just out of things to give
so please stay out this time.

~

Human love enhances floating dust particles
Platanas autumn colours invigorate this day
Between half open eyelashes Sun rays refract
The bountiful light in delicate rosette offering.

~

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

All of the times spilled out of my mouth like ink on a page and I couldn't have been more embarrassed nor more relieved in my entire life.

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.