Last night I ate broccoli and cheddar soup
from Panera
--in a breadbowl

which I gave to my mouse, Chai;
now I am at the typewriter,
we are listening to Ziggy.

And with Chai sitting inside of it
the breadbowl looks like
a little mud hut in Mali

Saint Jude says what's up
been in Boston all night
having coffee and tea, I bet
you're doing the same
in Tibet or wherever

They tried everything
on you: the secret arrests
burned Rumi books
poisoned coconut water
giraffes with broken faces

Loneliness is the door to the traps
but you know
who you are
I know too when I see you
on the coast

as still, as skinny as
one of my African statues
as lithe as a palm frond or a jellyfish
You were always going to get free
you were always going to get free

You found me dangling by a breath,
on the edge of some unknown redemption.

I swore that I would never let my something old,
affect our something new.

And I know;
through those gentle brushes,
of strong hands against weak arms,

That you promise to hold me together,
when all signs pointed,
to me falling apart.

Here we are in this cold world, and we stand
Shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel the heat.
But we do not reach out.
We remain alone.
Haunts in a barren land, lonely souls full of hatred
Because we stand on the brink of connection, of salvation.
And yet we deny ourselves.
And when one cracks,
Cracks open like a wine glass shattered, leaking emotion dark and smooth,
The others deny them in coldness like the ring of crystal,
A toast to a life ended,
To a graveyard joke,
To a jolly good shred of plastic fluttering from a dead tree branch in the wind.
We deny one another, us fools full of yearning and need.
We punish, and it goes round,
And we know not who it is vicious to.
Us or them.
Us alone and lonely or them refusing empathy.  
Us striking rejection like a match or them pleading for tenderness at our coattails.
It goes round like the room's spinning.
We deny our hearts, and they quake in our ******* until we break,
And our blood like wine spills on the floor.
And around us the parlor talk goes on and on, and glasses clink.
Clink, clink, clink, all around.
Drink up to exquisite cruelty.

These words that span two hearts
       polarize each day's interlude
              

so close when elbows hug.

Forgive me for forgetting
The purpose of this poetry

I got lost in the prose
And diluted the feeling
Distracted enough
To not kiss you completely

I feel like a man who has eaten
Food with onions in it
Self-conscious syntax between my teeth

My tongue attempting to describe
All the things your lips are like

I forget that I am supposed to feel first
Then write

The answer sits awkward in my mouth
Like an Egyptian vowel
Some language I have yet to learn

And I stand like a third world country that there are no commercials for
There are no heartstrings to tug
No Sarah Mclachlan songs
No one sees the hunger
Building in the bellies of my motherless country

But if there must be indifference in this love
I want to love you more than you love me

He is in love with questions
And the lilting world of words,
With the fabric of philosophy
And the taste of fresh ideas.

He is in love with the smell of green
And the shifting sands of dreams,
With the hunt for profound moments
And the hunger-lust for purpose.

He is in love with his books
And the zodiacs cross the planet,
With patterns of chain reactions
And the way we cog and gear.

He is in love with pools of stardust
And fanciful notions of theory,
With darkness, deep and coveted
And the fabric it is made from.

He is in love with one who left
And the poisoned past he bathes in,
With being perpetually lonesome
And floating twixt life’s sabulous banks.

He is in love with memories, and the universe,
And nobody else.

With my choking heart, I’m grasping at dust,
And I am in love with him.