Perhaps the earth is floating,
I do not know.
Perhaps the stars are little paper cutups
made by some giant scissors,
I do not know.
Perhaps the moon is a frozen tear,
I do not know.
Perhaps God is only a deep voice
heard by the deaf,
I do not know.

Perhaps I am no one.
True, I have a body
and I cannot escape from it.
I would like to fly out of my head,
but that is out of the question.
It is written on the tablet of destiny
that I am stuck here in this human form.
That being the case
I would like to call attention to my problem.

There is an animal inside me,
clutiching fast to my heart,
a huge carb.
The doctors of Boston
have thrown up their hands.
They have tried scalpels,
needles, poison gasses adn the like.
The crab remains.
It is a great weight.
I try to forget it, go about my business,
cook the broccoli, open the shut books,
brush my teeth and tie my shoes.
I have tried prayer
but as I pray the crab grips harder
and the pain enlarges.

I had a dream once,
perhaps it was a dream,
that the crab was my ignorance of God.
But who am I to believe in dreams?

The evening slips away
like fireflies through fingers.
Your eyes turn from the color of sand at twilight
to the indigo-blue of the ocean at night.

Our easy laughter sinks into
soft whispers
as the sky shifts from peach blossoms
to hushed velvet black.  

Your touch is no longer just soothing warmth.
I can feel the buzz of electricity
when your hand hovers nearer.

As stars replace the sun and those
lyrical night insects relieve the birds,
my heart changes rhythm to match your own.

Soon, the moon dangles overhead
and we run out of words at last,
our still lips meeting with sparks
that set the night ablaze.

When my mind wanders to thoughts of you
(it so often does, you know)
they aren’t the most obvious daydreams;
you are never on a white horse,
shirtless on some sunset beach or
feeding me chocolate-dipped strawberries.

Instead I dream of the littlest things
about you –
the sound you make when something excites you,
your reaction to a joke.

Things that shouldn’t matter
pop into my head as I wait in a line (you call them queues):
the way you drive
how you eat an apple
the temperature of your skin.

When I can’t be with you I pass the time
conjuring the smell of you –
not cologne (you don’t wear it) –
The way you smell when I wake up
in the middle of the night
to nestle closer to you.

I love just to sit and remember you,
from the weight of your arms around me
to the way your hands move
your lips too, how they form those
three splendid words.

I could spend hours imagining you
entirely
and when I come to,
shaken from my reverie,
I could spend hours more
counting the goosebumps
your ghost has given me.

Thick
Black
Ink
Oozes out
Seeping from
A warm, dank cavern.

It sticks
Blots
Stains
Spitting
And spurting
Out of control.

It gushes
Floods
From a cruel scowl
Onto pure
White
Cotton sleeves.

The flow will not
Stop
And the white is soon
Stained black by
Malicious
Words.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Sometimes I catch you looking at me
with a certain sort of gleam.
I can't tell if it is hatred
               or love.
Worse, I don't know which one scares me more.

I am done with you,
Those little orange bottles
And your needles
And your glittery powder
Everywhere.

I am done watching your bones grow
And your skin sag
And your soul peel
While you sit encircled in
Perfumes and
Smoke.

I am done waiting for your eyes to open
Wide enough for you to see
What hurt you managed to cause
By not lifting a finger
Or saying a word.

And soon,
So soon I didn’t see it
As it flashed past my heart,
Anger is welling and
I am screaming
Crying
Flailing.

My rage is pulsing
Against glass walls
And those walls
Are cracking
Against my skin.
The jagged shards
Leave jagged slices
That leave jagged scars.

And I won’t be done
Until they heal again.