Endless lengths of pavement
Blurred city street lamps
after
Blurred city street lamps
Wheels constantly turning under us.

the only thing i know for sure
in this moment is how good my
hand feels holding yours.

this poem has no further message,
motives, regrets or sad endings.
It merely stands as a
timeless monument
to a
singular moment.

I always knew
that there was a reason as to
why we would not be together.

only time has revealed to me
now
the true reason.

usted no entiende todo lo que soy.

The feelings came from someplace inside myself that I thought I'd lost.
And though we've known each other for some time, they just now become active.
I can't make sense of it.

And now the fire seeks to claim my better senses
passion overwhelming my calm demeanor
flooding out my logic and replace it with emotion

I thought I would want 1000 strangers.
Instead all I can dream about is you.

Every Night. I smoke and
recall that Mr. Bukowski
was disciplined and wrote
Every Night. And yet instead,
I laugh it off and smoke again.
Force my ink to stay away
from that mistress-paper.
and I wearily i wake up
Every Morning. to find one
less poem, ten less lines.

I would like to do a great many things:
play guitar like Isaac
find my voice to be comparable to Boyd's
write admiring Bukowski, though never plummeting as low
love the woman who has never been loved correctly
express myself in my own way on bass
and make myself out of the parts that I choose.

and if for some reason another person enjoys these things, that's just something else to be proud of.

This town does something to me.
the loneliness.
isolation.
boredom.
it always comes back here.
same as last year.
same as this year.
same as next year i'm sure.

almost time to ramble on.