and here I found myself
in complete radio silence.
You're the soft humming static,
the deafening silence
as soon as I close my car door.
There's a certain kind of peace here,
though what I have is emptiness;
what I have is nothing.
You're the cigarette in my fingers at 3 am,
if only I hadn't quit.
You're the portrait that I'd create in awe,
if only I knew how to draw.
You're every song and piece of poetry
that these hands will ever compose for months,
and even years,
and by the stars, sweetie,
do I know how to write.

We're not damaged goods
Maybe we're just lonely people

How is this possible?
Rejected by a website,
At least that's how I feel.
Not enough likes,  not enough messages.
But what else is new?  
It's been this way since I was a kid...

Insecurity, neediness
It's not very attractive.
Maybe it's time to grow up.

You don't know me.
I’m warning you now,
don't even consider knowing me
or pretend to know me.
I've beaten lesser men
and poisoned the hearts
of lesser women
for trying to know me.

I am aggressively alone in distant observation,
away from unpredictable friends
who often transform
into entirely predictable enemies.

Alone is my simple form of silent tranquility
with my thoughts and my words
and my unfulfilled dreams.
The silhouette of a single Canadian goose
stands majestically on the shore
of the summer river
below the orange city skyline at dusk,
or the smell
of your old leather jacket
and a soft kiss
that partially wakes me
before you leave in the early morning
to never return.

My brain is a sieve.

Most of the words of this poem have dripped out
on the road
on my shirt
on the front step as I fumbled for my keys.

I think it was something about
starlight and loving you
but then that’s no surprise.
At this point the structure of my DNA
is sonnets I composed for you
and free verse you’ll read and think
is about someone else.
The kinds of words you’ll coo about
and caress in your mind
and shower me with praise over
like a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek
when I want and want and want you.

But I suppose we’ll never know, now
what this poem was going to be about.

It’s my brain, you see.

It’s a sieve.

The carrion birds are circling overhead
and I’m dragging my half dead body
down a deserted street thinking to myself
this is when the credits roll for me
and I’m not so sure I’ve the energy to mind
but then there is the ghost of your hand
brushing against my cheek and oh
oh god I could cry for wanting you.

I breathe in a deep gasping lungful of air
I’d just convinced myself I wouldn’t miss
because someday someday maybe soon
I might be able to take that air from you
I might be able to turn my head and brush
my mouth with yours in a disbelieving caress
to touch your lips with just the tip of my tongue
in abject adoration of you.

And oh just the thought of it
just the force of my want
has frightened away the vultures again.

My body is still half dead but my heart bangs on
for you for you for you