I could never pen the words without the inspiration.

You have always been the  silent partner behind the madness and I know many will read this wrong.

Sweetheart I am a world of trouble and a sea of regret .

But your presence amongst the insanity has remained my light no matter how lost I was you remained.

And no words will ever repay the debt I certainly owe.

The voice that laughed on the other end of a conversation when I found only darkness instead .

I owe you everything as now I find my place .

I know words are my path and you knew them first .

We are all lost in some way but no words can do justice to the
person that I know beyond this page .

Sweetheart I seldom let anyone in but we know the truths beyond the storms in this life .

This debt I can never repay but these words I can certainly write.

This is what I leave to you.

The soul is my work and this yet another goodnight.

No flowers to wither and no fruit to spoil.

Trace it's more than words but all I can give for now .

Hold this true from a joker and a best friend that lingers in conversation that which can so easily be cast upon this page.

A wink and a thought shared on yet another long distance call.

No words will ever describe what you mean to me .

I guess I will say nothing and just let the credits roll .


We know are truths and that's good enough for now.


Sincerely


John

I've tried to tell you at least 1000 times
But the words were too scared to come out
Or the right words didn't exist
In the language I've spoken my whole life
And were I to try another language
They might make more sense
You need to know - it's vital
Both emotionally & physically
And you probably already do
But your mind struggles to process
The immensity of what should have been done
 so long ago
But now seems too late to reverse..

So there I've said it.. Do you understand?
Oh, there I go again. I've said so much &
Tried so hard, but the words won't come out
I'll try again soon, hopefully
Before it's too late....

“Was it the backless back of a black dress that did it?”

                                          They’ll ask, loudly
                                          even though the wolves that roam these streets
                                          are merely feigning sleep
                                          and are starving

“Yes!”

                                          They will agree
                                          as drool slips from the hinge of a wolfish grin
                                          from the forked tongue
                                          of an angel

“What else could she expect?”

                                         Of course
                                         they must abide by the code of the pack(of course)
                                         which is of course
                                         the root of disrespect

“How obscene! How uncouth!”

                                         (how to measure human flesh)
                                         as if they could  hold up her “no(s)” to his “yes”
                                         which is bigger and louder
                                         and stronger

“Yes! … Yes! … Yes!”

                                         As if to them
                                         to the wolves, to the men, to the uncondemned
                                         what happened, really
                                         was for the best.

The owner bites the dog, I bit myself
I think
I ate my leash
My psychological hand pulls the chain
from my stomach, leading me into the kitchen where
You are making coffee

I wake up in the morning
and curse you
that bed, that old vessel of human broth
I make it
Repackaged, like new,
let’s consume from within –
Crisis averted

Last night I dreamt of islands
chasing me
And I was afraid
because I had deserted them

You
Pour me a cup of coffee
I accept
offering you a smile, but
no gratitude, or hope
While my mind gnaws
at the memory
of love.

Ex nihilo: you, refusing to apologize
I wonder
if the world that your eyes violate and consume
withers
painted in the colorless color that comes
from mixing all colors
your color.

I have painted my room with you and now
it is nothing, no
nothing at all

I yawn and I tremble

Consequentially; therefore; thus; and so;
- as a result
the cracked walls speak of (but do not explain)
Sundays
thorned, tragic, unyielding;
sighs of futility writ large

You, on a Sunday
painting the world
in your color

And I felt the universe explode behind my eyes.
                     The language and thoughts
                                     and sensations that accompany such—
                                                 This sea foam fever, this glassy-eyed sickness;
                            what a beautiful horror!  I shiver.
                                                      Thi­s and that.  The shadow of an afternoon.
                                                      ­ A Thursday.
Perhaps it was imagined (that time has passed, that it happened at all)
      But when I wake up in the morning,
                    Emptied of the ticking tocking melancholic howl,
                                   I know why this is so—
                                   I believe I know why this is so—

Of course, to say it aloud would be suicide, and the lovers of the love of the fear prefer purgatory, and of course we do what we can to do what we do to maintain, obtain, sustain.  I aim—
Yes, I aim!—but not in a fulfilled sense:  esse est percipi—to be is to be perceived—a foreign and welcome sensation.  But put those hands away, put that look away, before I forget my—
Before it is lost.  
Lost...? Yes, lost.  
My name, I believe in my name.  Perhaps.  To crawl to crawl to crawl inside of this warm nothingness that tastes like gold soft sweet afternoons, like
driving
along
the
coast
at
dawn
like stopping at the gas station before the forest like the blueness between 5 and 6 pm.  A truly really very steep sort of warmth.  

Temporal fears are so beautifully placed.

Saturdays, when I take the train home
through the hazing misting grayness
I am happy