It was just as I said, cut flowers
making a mess.
Should have let it die on the vine.
No kiss. Just a book
possessed but not read.
Just as I said.

I'd gladly climb
back into your heart
and get drunk on your pulse
again--that
limitless
chamber.

I'd gladly climb
back between your rivers
and feel the power
of everything most ancient and
utterly new
behind, through,
and before me--
speaking
with rippling
mouths
and signs.

You're gone,
though.
Everything is back to
the way it was before.
The invisible seed
died and dissolved,
unimplanted.
It's all still there,
scattered, dissolute,
lonely.

I would give anything
to be fooled again
by that most true
illusion.

My hands are empty,
my words are empty,
my blood courses without destination,
my cells divide without promise,
my heart only waits for you
to come back with your drunkenness,
your truth.

I'm always played out,
now, pulsing in my hard shell,
hungry hopeful thighs,
unstoppable but sometimes very slow
mind.

I've no one to
address these to, come to
the window and see.

Give me a reason
to let it all go, come and
make it make sense
and I swear I

have wings as wide as the world
to show you,
colorful,
penetrable,
hungry,
we will

rewrite the world

us two

kindness is the sky vault.
up high, stormless, all-seeing,
powerful, empty.
kindness is hidden here.
storms pass through it,
sun passes through it.
kindness is not of the storm.
it is still, and vast.

Most of these are just an ache.
Writing's fine, but there's got to be another way.
I'm battling my better instincts--sleep and strength,
for two--and it's got to stop.
Acceptance is always bittersweet--mainly bitter.
Yet it's the only peace, so why does it
feel unnatural,
unfamiliar?

In my purse there's a connection
to the universe.
I use it to contact you.
Come back,
I ask.
And you'll come back,
a shadow of your
shadow's shadow.
And we'll dance
in the bath,
splashing and
sad.
And they'll laugh.
As well they should.
For I might not have anything to say
but it's funny
anyway.

You thought it was the beginning
but it was the end.
and then it was the end again.
And then again.

And then you thought it was the end
but it was the beginning.
And so it went on,
pummeling and muddling
and the less sense you made
the more sense you made of it all.

Here is a box of
cocktails. Enjoy each
one fluttering
and composed of
ORIGINAL
ingredients--
yes, REAL!
So real you can even
taste
it. Let me cry
for you that
you never tasted
anything
else.

And there we'll all be
crying, the chorus
oh God, not that again
and people paid
to tear their heart out
(or hair, whatever)
and rend garments
while cameras
click

That wasn't me,
because I'm nothing
you just got a lot of
bows around a box of
nothing--

Ha!

ship
sank
silently
in
a
silent
sea

hungry flowers bloom at night
wide and ripe as milk.

When you seek me out
and I say it's not happening
don't act out
of the passion of apathy.
What we long for
isn't what we have.
Don't let's find
the virility in sadness.
Not that there's
much risk of that...

You and I already
keep around enough baubles
to keep away the
loneliness.

Don't let's make
each other more
of the same.

turn the lights on
to this body in this night
flushed with anger
and eyes staring
into nonsense like
fog lights brightly blind
into which we dropped
a spirit deep
as into a bottomless well
and it fell into the darkness
yet can't be entirely lost
and stares back
out of the absurdity
the disordered emotions
and disproportionate flesh
around you one cat is awakened and
quietly crying, light on the white tiles
so you stand before your reflection
and trace *******
down the line of your center,
which in your fancy
seems a means of escape
but the inside will
never open up and be seen
or touched and you
can never quite give up

When he's gone
the bed needs another blanket to be warm.
Often even a heating pad on his side.

I could just set up two heating pads
and without us, the bed would make more sense.

Better than two crap machines.
And more clean.