Her ****** was confusing
Like a Cretan Labyrinth
Her dad was the Minotaur

My favorite people
are the ones who
do the things
that I don't
want to do

i think poetry is most beautiful
when it is written in pen. unedited.
there is something about reading
the words as they were written.
to see where the tears kissed the page
and how they distorted the writing
as they fell.
i like poems that were intended to be journal entries;
pure naked emotions somehow blessed
with a god-given aesthetic.
sometimes an honest poem
doesn't reflect its title,
as if human emotion altered the original plan.
that's real.
that's poetry.

Jesus Christ grandma
"Oriental"
isn't a term we use anymore

We were walking
down some street
well,
I was walking
He had a scooter

The finger that points
to the moon
is not the moon
"No **** Sherlock,
real ****** perceptive."
The Moon replied sarcastically

My hands died slowly,
with blood vessels surrendering
to the chill.  They turned grey, yellow, lavender,
dusky. Dusky, like the sun had been setting
for hours and I only just realized it.
Pills made them pink again,
but I can’t help but notice
you flex your fingers after we shake.
A cold grip doesn’t suit you

yet. Gloves on, or else I’ll hold the
palm over a light bulb in the bathroom
before running it along his spine.
Blood thinned out to
water, bouquets of nerve

endings wilted.  I lost a piece
of each pinky promise, the weight
of a wedding-band.  Flipping the bird
at the catcallers carries one joint less
meaning, and I have trouble
getting to the point. As I
brush my thumb along my lover’s
wrist, back and forth and back
and forth, I only feel the holes.

Why does everybody
run up the stairs
slow down bud
they ain't scary