I write what I see,
Because I am blind.
I write what I hear,
But I am deaf.
I write what I feel,
But paralyzed.
I write what I smell,
In my burnt nose.
I write what I taste,
The only sense left,
And thank the day,
Because it can be worse.

Eyes clenched to the darkness,
Could you see me?
I saw you through the river of tears,
Emotions called your name
But did you hear me?
I didn’t hear you.
I apologized under every sun and
moon.

I saw the fear.
Did you see the reflection?
I can feel it vibrate through your skin.
Scared of nothing,
Only everything.
I’m scared for you
And me,
Selfish aren’t I.

Clenching your hand in the Sahara
Of the hospital room where it was
A mirage until it faded,
Where did you go?
I’m sorry you had to leave.
Sorry that I held the door,
You never shut it on me.

Sorry we couldn’t fish.
Are you fishing now?
Beside the river you spoke about?
Did you know that within your last
Breath we all drowned in the
Heartbeat of your existence.

seeking to post, embracing the sprite of send,
**, **, oh no, oh no, my work is roasted,
thy error message says
boy, thy work,
lost, burnt, and toasted!

did not your brother William foretell,
“These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triump die, like fire and powder
Which, as they kiss, consume”
their issue, our poems, explode and die, unsent!

Can you blast us a group message, a fine line of one or two,
what ails the system this politically incorrect discrimination,
some can, some can't, it is a glitch or has our transatlantic
"special relationship" or my operating system,
sunk beneath the clouds?

Post us brother, why some of us can and others not,
post our words which you love so much!

I only write poetry
to submit my poems
to the publishers
so I can wall paper
my entire house,
tuck point the chimney,
shingle the roof
and make use of
holiday decorations
with rejection letters

you have to crawl through
the tunnel of 3 billion
rejections before you
can find acceptance.

how you handle it is what
matters most

but to anyone who has succeeded knows:
there never was a tunnel to crawl through
in the first place.

dear poets and poetess,

to whom it may concern:

when your poems of
indiscretion
are admired
most
by your fellow
correspondents,
you will be
well known for
mediocrity in
literature

don’t put forth
the effort and
you will gain
the recognition

I am the dancing bear

the flying trapeze artist

here to entertain you with
resonating thoughts,
raw emotions and
sophistication
of self worth


sweet dreams

                       with lots of love,
                  your sniveling sourpuss

                             Rick

you could own a safe
with all the greatest
treasures in the world
locked inside but it’s
still not as great
as knowing the
combination.