How can you be afraid of the dark,
My love...
When you're the only light
I've ever seen?

Even if you cannot shape your life as you want it,
at least try this
as much as you can; do not debase it
in excessive contact with the world,
in the excessive movements and talk.

Do not debase it by taking it,
dragging it often and exposing it
to the daily folly
of relationships and associations,
until it becomes burdensome as an alien life.

Raw
Misty
Morning
mossy beds
seaweed drying
upon clam-adorned rocks
deep mud pilfering
shoes and small things
all forgotten
when tides come in
better to be on shore
than to be out searching
better to be safe
instead of stuck waist deep
in clay-like mud
magnificent
nefarious
stealing
sludgy
thick
mud


the water is cold
as is the mud
mind the tide
the seaweed clothes and covets
what is lost
The clams find homes
in what cannot be found
the mud paints
the pale shoes and things

I

As I ride, as I ride,
With a full heart for my guide,
So its tide rocks my side,
As I ride, as I ride,
That, as I were double-eyed,
He, in whom our Tribes confide,
Is descried, ways untried
As I ride, as I ride.

II

As I ride, as I ride
To our Chief and his Allied,
Who dares chide my heart’s pride
As I ride, as I ride?
Or are witnesses denied—
Through the desert waste and wide
Do I glide unespied
As I ride, as I ride?

III

As I ride, as I ride,
When an inner voice has cried,
The sands slide, nor abide
(As I ride, as I ride)
O’er each visioned Homicide
That came vaunting (has he lied?)
To reside—where he died,
As I ride, as I ride.

IV

As I ride, as I ride,
Ne’er has spur my swift horse plied,
Yet his hide, streaked and pied,
As I ride, as I ride,
Shows where sweat has sprung and dried,
—Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed—
How has vied stride with stride
As I ride, as I ride!

V

As I ride, as I ride,
Could I loose what Fate has tied,
Ere I pried, she should hide
As I ride, as I ride,
All that’s meant me: satisfied
When the Prophet and the Bride
Stop veins I’d have subside
As I ride, as I ride!

I don't believe in perfection or something being perfectly flawed.
And I guess you could say that it means that I don't believe in happiness,
mostly the kind that comes from loving someone else.
And I guess I could tell you I don't believe in things I've never experienced.
But then I could tell you how I had left a half eaten English muffin covered in ketchup on my counter for weeks because reminded me of her,
the eccentricities that I didn't want to forget, that she wouldn't let me keep.
Or maybe how I didn't clean for weeks because the Newports strewn among the furniture also reminded me of the half dazed smile she would give me before we kissed.
And I don't believe love is quite right to describe what I felt.
I think it was much more, it was an instant connection.
She was so complicated and I'm nothing but simple.
And I feel like that might be a lie.
But I could tell you I was being honest and in time I was telling the truth.
I don't believe I was in love with her,
and I guess that means you could say that I don't believe in her,
mostly that she could have ever been mine.
Mostly, because she wasn't.

Snow falls against
The cracked wall
The baby’s cries
Seeping out
As the wind slips in.

The child is just looking
For a source of warmth.

The one that has slowly dissipated
As the heat turns to ice.
As the soul was sold
To the all consuming bundle—
Will bring only death knocking.
Twice.