I wrote no poems yesterday;
my mind was somewhere else.
It mostly minded you, Ms. Mystic,
and thought of little else.

My pen and paper hesitation
came from your superb self.
Words scratched out -- Nouns and Verbs --
because none of them quite work.

Imagination -- the one true author --
speaks no lies to me.
She describes you in elegant tongues
telling no one what I see.

I wish my life was like a poem
then I would be beautiful.
I would have rhythm, cadence, imagery;
my rhymes they would be plentiful.

I would have stanzas of separation,
my life would be in order.
They would build upon each other
from beginning to end -- clear borders.

Someone would have infused emotion,
clear meaning to my words;
something mysteriously discernible
the lack of which does hurt.

Instead I'm just a jumble of
unnecessary words and phrases.
No clear anything at all,
No future meaning to the ages.

Sometimes my thoughts get lost.
They start young, but then get tossed
aside, dying along my way.
I hope I'll find them soon because
I don't know what to say.

Up and Down! Rough love!
An Impossible Dream lives
To make me sore. Ouch!

Christ!
now everybody knows but you.
I could shout myself from the rooftops,
still you would not hear me.
God!
in his infinite jesting,
he stuffs your ears with cotton *****.

If I could eat this moment
It would sustain me forever
On this Electric Air
I could fly until dawn.

How much does the universe cost?
I have enough currency
In this feeling to buy you
All that exists — now and then.

But I know —
It escapes me now —
The feeling might last for a second
But it will
Evaporate
It will be dry for a moment
Until I find another to
Fill me forever —
Again

Creation of my Mind
I long, with heart, to know you fully.
Somewhere between the ego and id
You lope.

Cigarette smoke, blue-grey in
The breeze twirls like you do,
Gracefully bounding around
My fears.

The twisted narrative inside
My thought -- winding roots of
Dry untruths which you prune away
To heal.

You plant the seeds, the grasses of
Elysium, a paradise of
Vision and sweet Words
Within me.

the moon hides
      behind the sheet
                    of night clouds

                    it shines
      brightly. a massive
            secret that
                       at points
            penetrates its rays
                    softly like
whispers. from earth, you
         catch its quiet notes
                   on your fair and
     lovely self

                                                the moon and
                                        me. silent behind
                                our clouded heart --
                                but our light is
                                       loud.

Because I could not stop for Love —
She quickly passed me by —
Our Silent Ships sailed past the other’s
Fated Trajectory.

Looking back I saw — Her Bright Light
Blazed with secret Flame —
A now far flung feeling shrinking
Into inky blue...

Drowning in the dream of
what I hope to be.
Swimming in the swirling eddies of
the impossible truth.
I'm drowning fast as the foamy surf fills
my lungs and weighs them down
like sandbags.
Eyes open, it surrounds me and
traps me inside of itself.
Weights on my feet--
the blue fades to black.
It's the dream, not the nightmare, that
consumes

you will be twice Eurydice,
the first was in my mind

the thoughts of doubt, a
snake in the grass of the
fantasies of love

the second, of course, in
the land of Death, where
my mistake was yours

-

my fears are mine and
mine alone. the Snake -
my Doubt, was made by
me to save me from
myself

I can but concentrate on
Only one thing at a time.
Frankly, however it has been
Occupied, recently, by
Singularly you.

this morning
       I picked up the pieces
                                of myself from the floor
                                where the shattered pieces
                      fell when I broke
down and scattered

                 they were
                                                                          all
                                                   about
the
                        place
                                                   I called home.

But
I reassembled myself
putting myself together
with ugly white, sticky glue.

You have inspired me
To rip my eyes from my head.
My fingers pulled at the nerve
tendrils slowly ripping them from their bed.

There will be no screams, no,
I will be silent, for your kind has
Stolen my voice already and I
Have no hope of finding it again as

I cannot see.

Christ and i
            aren't that different

we both died
                were killed
     for who we loved

but i am my own
       pilate and
       people and
       peter

Come! Come! Everyone!

I dance my dance and
fake a facade;
A sound plie
of self pity.

"Woe is me!" I say,
"Yes! Woe IS me!" I reply.
My aside explains it all:
"I'm the saddest man alive."