Anyone ever hear that Cortez might have said,
lo siento;
Or Hudson's Bay recall one blanket?
What regret or remorse would be achieved.
Why? Because of more or less.

Sorry. I'll try harder.
     That sounds like your heart was never in it.

Sorry. I ****** up.
     That's sincere.

I recanted on a really big SORRY,
And sorry I am
That ever I did mouth it.

when do we stop playing games with love?
when do we let our cotton candy hearts be
dissolved by a wet, sour tongue
when do we allow ourselves to be vulnerable
without anything in return?
that's there's strenght in fragility and ferocity
in salty tears;
when do we stop lying to ourselves and
settle for a love that doesn't burn our souls?

we become stories,
i've never had a first love;
but i've ******,
had one night stands
and morning goodbye's
told myself love is chemical
love fades and never comes back.

Love's a reaction,
at the right or wrong time;
we lie, we lay next to our selves, we seek
to feel a hole in, to make ourselve fill
in a mold that everyone's talked about
but;
what is love but imperfect.
Filled with some lies, with some hatred
with some humanity.

I love,
but I'll never be whole
and never a hole;
I'm complete yet
wanting to be less lonely.

I take umbrage
At comparing
The POTUS
To a lying piece of crap.
I've experienced crap, lots of it!
Usually brown, with no comb-over.
So POTUS **** is an unfair analogy.
Now, a moniker like
Faeces Face fits,
And stinks to the high heavens.

They never understand;
Or ever comprehend
The severity of my decision.
I'm convinced I have control,
Yet those I dearly hold,
Keep hold on their derision.

I know I'll find remission
For commissions and omissions;
My love was never so cold.

She'll say I never loved her;
There always was the other
Stopping us from growing old.

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

Birds don't rain down from heart attacks,
Or aneurysms: we should be waist high
In hundreds of millions of feathered bodies.
Where are they?
Not like us, who fall in the strangest places:
Stop signs, ball games, synagogues, schools.
And we cover them, step around them,
Chalk mark floors and sidewalks,
And eventually pick up the pieces.
But we can't perch on live wires,
Or fly between wind vanes.
Where are the bodies.
Domestic or feral.
Look to the sociocat,
Though innocent,
It prowls by nature.