i am made of...
thought...
ink and pen and paper... and so much more.
scribbled phrases on diner napkins.
post it notes stuck to walls.
scrawled doggerel in bathroom pens.
phrased ideology in lined notebooks.
spinnered words on lazerprinted A4.
scraps of inklings, on ripped butcher's bags and wrappings.
condolences in funeral books.
ideas capital lettered on cards,
pinned to cork boards.
epitaphs stonemasoned
into granite blocks.
fury arranged just so,
on parchment.
newsprinted with loose blurry, black ink on broadsheets
scribed by pointed stick on
firm wet sand.
notes on heavy cards, of love
and light bright shiny stuff.
discarded sentence startings, left crumpled, lost in a bin.
loss, written with red wine on white table cloth.
art, etched on vellum anciently old, suprisingly relevent.
tapped into tablets both stone
and techview.
blue and red markers squeaked onto white boards.
daubed on canvas with a fine sable brush.
tatttoo-ed upon ones flesh.
carved into wooden school desks.
pressed into moist clay by delicate fingernails.
marked so deeply upon a soul.
chalked to cement,
to stay for...
but a short season.
written for some very, (un)important reason.
courage to speak, sing, whisper, shout, cry, laugh, observe and ponder.
this is me....
i am a word written down.. any word, any word.
i am undeniable, desirable often incomplete
always open  always waiting
for some one...
......just like you ...
to open your heart let me in
to recognize a new start
to have a play, a scribble,
doodle, pen jive. to become
alive.... to thrive,
just begin with a single letter.....then another,
go on be brave...
..........grant me liberty....

Poetry walks into a bar.
She gets drunk
On life.


F.Z.**N

A cockatiel lives in my ribcage
and maybe it should
come out and tell me about
the pain it swallows
and turns into songs,
songs for everybody to hear.

I am fine with it there most
of the time, really.
But sometimes at night my pretentious
heart gets tired and I want
to tear it up and set the bird free.
There's nothing that can save me.


F.Z.**N

The months were passing
As my doubts growing
Higher and higher.
I was thinking that
She was just a summer fling,
That we were just mad
At each other,
That we will eventually
Get back together.

Anyway,
My doubts carried on
Until the merry merry day
I saw my grandmother's ring
Around her finger.
And I knew we were pretty much over.


F.Z.**N

Okay maybe you found yourself
Some other girl,
You don't need me any more.


F.Z.**N

In two hours
I will be happy
For an hour.
But in three
I will get back
To being
Unhappy.


F.Z.**N

I looked at you
The way an artist
Would look at a naked woman.
Your bottom lip was designed
For kissing,
Your hands for crafting,
And there was a picture in every moment
I have shared with you.

I saw that we fit together
So very perfectly,
But the subjective camera
Was only me.


--Eleanor

Your love for me stops
Where her lips begin.
My love for you lives
In every place we've been.


-- Eleanor

There was a time
When I was with you
And each smile,
Each shiver was framed
And hanged
On the walls of our dreams.
Now I fall asleep
And everything
Is silent,
Except the screams
Of those paintings
As they crumbled
To the floor
And didn't mean a thing
Any more.


F.Z.**N

My bag heavy
With sanity
Slowed my steps
Before I dropped it
In the middle of nowhere
And started to run
Toward insanity,
Toward you.


F.Z.**N

What kills me the most
Is that your forever
Never quite matched mine.


F.Z.**N

one foot in every world
one foot in every word

prophetess of yore,
foreseeing farseeing,
recoding recording
mundane supermarket voyages,
become paradoxical
holy lover spats

for all of us
become her
become her poems,
travelogues, snippets
of marvel at the DNA
each thinking
wanting to think
tween us and no other

she does not know me
but she has felt my
foolishness here

connecting like no other
in a long time,
have listened to each record
in the Queen-bee's collection,
she unknowing, mine,
her favor returned

verbal scientist
she uncovered discovered
a small gate on the edge
of the map of her brain,
that led here her her here where
t her e

am amazed
she sees me

like no other
voyageur ******

but I cannot
Write like Deborah
no but I can
Write of Deborah