So I haven't had time
To read many prose and rhymes
Sneaking pretty words like drugs
From all the **** poem writing thugs
Hide up under the bar
I've only read two so far
Work is cutting in to my addiction
Reading and writing, my affliction
Maybe I can hide in the storage closet
That gives me time to write one comment
Jotting rhymes on my arm
Who said poetry didn't cause harm
Its my obsession
This is my confession
I cannot hide it anymore
I recognise I'm a poem *****
I go from one poem to another
"Feeling" them up like a lover
Then on to the next
For more word ***
Yep, I'm a ******-poemac
Addicted to poetry crack
Your pretty words are my drugs
And you **** poets are the poem writing thugs

he comes out of the woodwork
every five to seven years
(maybe he's a locust)

usually when he's lonely
or *****
or wants to blow his brains out

he kicked the drug *****
out of his trailer
(he overheard
her cheating thoughts)
and so
she went back to his brother

it was a nice visit
he complimented me maybe,
he said i'm not man crazy anymore

I think maybe
he's made his last appearance
in my story

if he doesn't know me
in twenty two years
well, I don't have
the experience to compete
with his latest conquests

If you're ever on the riverside
where the sun beats your head
you would see the old man
selling hats of palm leaf
but you care not to notice him
having already smelled the sea
and too keen to cross the river
travel southward on the island
till the saline wind scalds your eyes
your skins itch to jump into the waves
yet the man with the palm leaf hats
would not cease to tell you
how burning would be the sun on the sands
and so badly you need to protect the head
by parting bucks that mean nothing to you
but a world to the mouths he feeds
and before you stamp on him a final no
she has one atop her hair
beneath which her eyes flutter like butterflies
her sun rouged cheeks untimely blush
and two born anew lovers
merrily head for the sea
having bought romance
for forty bucks.

A man waiting on someone to die
drinks another cup, sighs
and looks at his watch, the face
everyone rememembers
for its twitch and drooping eye,
always running, always losing
a second, an hour, sometimes a day,
a year on the wrist of the dead.

noise is a good deal on my mind
today.
I don't mean the sounds
that people make.
Just that rumbling, growling
scream
that comes up from the middle
of me.
I got so I didn't notice it
until it is a little absent.
This morning I found three slow
gray snails on a bush on the woods-trail.
And while I was weeding the mint
the wind started blowing
dandelion seeds toward me
and they grew wings and flew away.
Turns out they were termites.
Ordinary miracles-
until you figure in the absence of noise.

Insect soloist of enormous color brushstroke
the given day
Cobalt- silver windows laced with
mountains of billowing steam , coveys
of timid Quail spark an afternoon of vivid dreams
A whisper of hope to awaiting ear , the
saccharin flavor of love filling warm air
The living day of Wren , Sparrow and Chickadee
The very hour of Live Oak , Sugar Pine and Mulberry
Fertile , vivacious stream beds on course for Gulf waters
Rainbow infused land of Cherokee Fathers* ...

I can sense your whispers through my dreams before I've even fallen asleep
Even though you're not there, I'll make myself believe you're next to me
Your voice echoes through my mind, saying the words 'I love you' on repeat
When I wake up, I'll imagine you're where you are supposed to be
I'll feel the space around me
When I feel nothing
The tears will fall so suddenly
And I won't be able to stop myself from crying
But I'll just remember your face and the plans we've made
And slowly those tears will start to fade
Then a smile will form upon my face
Where there's a will, there's a way
And I know we'll have our say
Together forever and 5 more days
I've loved you every moment from the start
And no amount of time together or apart
Will lessen the love that grows every day deep within my heart