He had a big belly
but he wasn't a fat man
he wished he was a fat man

his daughter was four
and she told him that he
looked like a
turtle
born
on the wrong side of
its shell

and mother laughed.
He didn't.

Surely he would have if the
swelling wasn't a terminal
disease
a type of cancer of the
stomach and guts whose
name he struggled very
hard to
forget
but the regular visits to
the doctor kept reminding him

his wife kept laughing
she said that laughing
is the key
the best healing
Laughter and love
lots and lots of love
Love

but the other night when
he tucked the little girl
in bed and kissed her forehead and
said "I love you."
she poked her tongue at him
and said "I don't! You ugly and weird.
I love mommy and puppy Bran. Good
night." And she put her
head on the pillow and
closed her eyes.

It was I who went to the shelter
and brought puppy Bran home, he though
as he closed the door, tears
blurring his vision
He didn't go into the
bedroom where his wife
was probably asleep

he went into the bathroom
vomited
washed his face
rinsed his mouth
went into the kitchen
and grabbed the leash
went outside
and took puppy Bran
for a walk

the moon lighted their path
and the shadow of his
big, swollen belly
covered all of puppy Bran

Paper looks so much better
With ink bleeding through the seams

Thoughts written down
To be crumbled up and thrown away

Objects to be traded
Only to fall inside the couch

Making checks and bills
Destroying lives and souls

Words that can't be spoken
Feelings that will never be heard

To be recycled
And forgotten

The dark is a scary place
       when you're all alone
Get out your switchblade
        face your fate
Follow her home
        hiding in the shadows

The difference between love and ******
        is...

Grab her hand
        pull her close
She wanders with someone else
        she was never yours
The cold hard truth
        she doesn't even know your name

The difference between love and ****** is...

Wait at the train station
         they arrive at eleven
Get out your forty-five
         nobody will ever see them again
Photograph their faces
         a picture for your album

The difference between love and ****** is the gun

I need you so badly
but you are not around

This is for you
this is just for you

I'll go to the ends of the earth
just to find you there

But when I get there
what will I say

I did this for you
I did this all for you

Everything I do is all for you
but you just choose to walk away

Pretend that I'm not around
maybe I'll disappear

This is all for you
This was always all for you

Maybe you'll pass by me years from now
I'll be with someone new

Pretending I don't need you
pretending I don't know you

When I saw you,
My stomach was rumbling ,
I dont know what it is ...
It feels like someone punch me in it.

Every lunch , when you're around
I can feel the pain ,
deep down in my ribs,
I can hear the screams
the scream of my silent stomach


but then I knew it was just a Hunger

I'm sorry I'm debris,
I collect in the corners
slowly cluttering,
until you bonk your toes
against me,
but never enough to pick up
and toss out.
This feeling is prickly,
constantly picks at me.

I'm sorry
I can't shake it,
it has grabbed hold, twisted around
my intestines.
The worst is, I know that it's empty--

that it's an old enemy,
who used to claw at me,
since grown tired,
now gathered it's wits
to come back,
commit more atrocities.
I hope it won't tear you

from me.

Simple things
to say bonding
two people.
two beings
between
two letters
H and I
Parallel
to their eyes

Hold on.
I have to clean this up.
I don't want your soles to get cut up by my lack of ambidexterity.
I'm right-handed but I thought I'd try this out with my left
And I'm not as deft with it, especially in the moment, but I thought I'd give it a shot anyway.

It's my fault... I don't know how to juggle.

I'm usually good with rotation but
between the dilation of my eyes and the inflation of my ego,
the sensation of being flippant left me in a painted tuxedo

And it's raining...It's been raining.

I'm not complaining but the paint
is running and bleeding; An apotheosis of Leonid Afremov
needing emotional content to prove I exist.

*I don't mean to be like this. I don't want to be like this.