It's the ones that get a hit, maybe two
That'll shred your soul apart
It's the poets with followers a few
Who's writing pierces the heart.

It's the poems that you can't believe aren't trending
That are worth a read and then another
It's the poems that are beautiful and rending
That should be on this site's cover.

I was sitting at the computer
trying to think of a way
to describe a woman's
*** as anything other
than a woman's ***
and there were
marlboro black
cigarettes on my
creaking desk
and I had a fifth
of whiskey on the
windowsill and
I rubbed my forehead
and thought of fruits--
apples and oranges--
no, no that's overdone
and I thought of animals--
elephants and horses--
but, again, no, I'd
come across as one of
those sick ******* that
go to the zoo in  
stained trench coats
and rub themselves against
the chain link
and Eve would walk in
beautiful girl with short
hair and a sharp mind
she'd ask what I was
writing about and
I'd say women
but the women were
never her, she pointed out
and I'd say I don't want to
jinx this, what we have,
you know? and she'd say okay,
okay

I'd get lit up every evening and
I'd text other women
I'd tell them about the shapes
of their ***** and the sizes
of their brains and they'd
usually say uh huh yeah
but I was fishing, always
fishing for that compliment
that sliver of hope, that
unsatisfied wife
when you're trying to be
Bukowski you'll throw
yourself under the bus
again
and
again
for what?
a story, trivial and base,
and that good woman,
that best woman, that Eve,
one day while making breakfast
she'll say to the eggs in the skillet
I can't take this **** anymore
and you'll say so don't
and she'll say fine
and she'll walk out the front door
wearing your t-shirt
you'll feel free for a week
and alone for two years.

I read it in the skies.
Clouds part before my eyes
Tomorrow.
For today, I will
Let it rain.

Watch dark clouds turn lighter
With each drop
Upon the forever careless
Grounds.

Let it all free itself.
Wind dries. Sun warms.
Grass grows.
Love shifts.

Blue skies are as common
As air.

What's one more pill to a man who's taken thousands?
It depends;
if you're running out and you drop one under the fridge, it's enough to move the fridge.
If you've taken eight but can't seem to fall asleep one might just do the trick.
If you're trying to sober up one might mean starting the cycle again.

Where now, my son?
Have they laid you
amongst the dead?
Or are you seeing
another kind of being?

I try to remember
our last conversation,
the words exchanged,
but they are elusive
like exhaled breath
in a winter's sky.

I look for you
as I turn my head,
the familiar places,
the passage way,
the hall,
the sitting room,
the chair
by the window
most of all,

but no matter
how hard I stare,
you're not there,
least not
that I can see,
although despite
my not seeing,
you may well be.

We couldn't find
your Jimi Hendrix
tee shirt,
the one
you used to wear,
despite us looking
everywhere.

Maybe that's the one
you wore that final night,
the one they cut away
to restart
your flat lined heart?

My loves have bought me
another Jimi Hendrix
tee shirt
to remember you
and keep you
close and near.

That was good of them;
wasn't it my dear?

I walk around touching.
I walk around touching objects
-Hanging or resting-
That carry shards of our
History in their origin.
My hands remember
The warmth of your back
Against my palm.
Sun lotion between my fingers,  
Denmark. Summer.
You tasted like xcide and your  
Mother's Marlboro Light.
Laughed.
Kissed me;
Soft but hard. Soul to my soul.
We were so completely happy.

This quill pen you made me
To inspire my words.
Draw us with your poetry.
To write about you drawing
A picture of me writing
About you.
Taking in; transferring.
I've written you
Volumes.
Volumes.

Picture.
I touch and smile.
Trace your face with
My fingers, your
Mouth. My God, your
Mouth...
You let me touch your
Teeth when you smiled.
I cried then, even during the
Good years.

I take it in. Dig deeper in memories
To strain my soul, and tattoo... and
Claim these moments as
Mine forever; graven into
The marble tablets of
My mourning mind.
Feeling the farewell with
My every fibre
And gaping, face soaking wet,
At the Heavens in a
Silent scream of
**** You God! She's gone!
GONE! FUUUUUUUCK!

Like some kind of miner or
****** of some sorts
Craving pain and beauty in
Equal handfulls,
Tearing and ripping
At the remains of something
That just days ago
Wasn't dead.

First poem to Tina as my lover no more.

I.

Three years and eight months.
My closest. My one.
She'd stayed through madness
Enough.
I am a man of demons.
As I slayed the last one
I turned to see her having fallen
For the blow
As well.
Women and children
Die first.

II.

We cry. We kiss and cry.
Make love crying.
Laugh crying.
Leaving streaks on her back
Of salty regret
As I kiss her every single
Detail farewell.
How can gratitude for love
Hurt like being hated
By a loved
One?

III.

I take full responsibility.
Never raised a hand, but spoke
Hard and disgusting
Bottled anger.
Her leaving makes it
Poetry; lends meaning.
I'll drink again, but the drunk
Demon
Is dead.

IVa.

Today I'll come home
And forget to cook
For just one.
That Volvo will never
Come speeding down the
Gravel road again containing
Other than an ex
Coming to collect
More things that are no
Longer
Ours.

IVb.

No longer mine. I say like all
Others in grief: *This pain
Is new to me.
I embrace it on the floor
Holding her sweater
That I burned a little
Warming it on the stove for
Her in winter.
Then it's into the box
With it.
I'll leave a tear on her every
Garment, thanking for
The love and passion
They held within.

V.

I look up at skies as blue
As they come.
I will live here alone.
Thanking for all the beauty,
And all we learned from
What wasn't.
All is how it should be.
This was our road to
Travel together.

Be well. Be loved. Be safe.
You owe me nothing.
Be happy for this;
There's growth in it.
You are no longer my
Girlfriend, but you'll
Always be my
Girl.

"Together" was our word.
To Get Her was
My most gracious gift
Since Life.
Now let me cry
Like a child lost.
Then I'll move on,
Being neither.

A single light
fractured into a billion shards
of bright white energy

fall like raindrops of
golden emotion to the
Earth.

All things under the sun,
sewn of the same silk and
molded of the same clay.

All pumping life
through roots embedded
in soft flesh.

Consecrating acts of love,
hate, and whim for they all flow
from the same spring,

reveling in the fact
that one exists exactly as
nature intended.

when I grew up I became a writer,
and at the same time all other
pursuits faded and floundered,
crumpling and whimpering like
puppies made of paper thin rose petals.

all my time is spent in thought,
warm wet puffy clouds of insight;
when I emerge in the light
of day with the mere mortals
chewing their complacency
like doe eyed, robotic cows,
my hands shake and my words run together.

I am too busy for the nonsense people call the daily grind,
that 9-5 mentality and the routine, oh the routine,
where we do what we hate so we have ten minutes to do
what we love and who we love.

Can't someone propose that we can do what we love
and get paid to do so, paid horrendously delicious amounts of money,
that would make basketball players blush and drug dealers cry?

For now I will take charge of this joblessness and settle into
my thoughts where I am free to roam
past streets filled with people waving at me and cheering me on;
I'll work your 9-5, and I'll spend a hearty 11 minutes
pouring my soul into my writing.

Sorry I'm late to work again.