i catch myself staring sometimes
it isn't my fault
she always wears the ones with a little bow on them
i try to resist
but i can't
i can't resist her
i could never
i will never
she says that will all change
one day
she says i'll resist her
i'll be immune to her touch
but the truth is
for once
she's wrong
i melt at her touch
under her fingertips
in her eyes
on her lips
and her tongue
i will gladly be her all
if she'll be mine

i couldn't help but feel all the
butterflies
fluttering around my stomach
it made me feel
alive
she makes me feel
alive
if this is what being alive feels like
i can see why most people are so afraid
to die
they don't want to lose this feeling
i guess
i'm in love
so let me tell you something, you *****
it makes me feel like i actually have something to lose
and that's a great feeling
these butterflies
in my stomach
they won't ever go away
i'm glad they won't
i've gotten used to their company

and all the pieces fell together
as we interlocked our lips
i had a girl with snowflake eyes
and beauty on my fingertips

From the backbroken fliers over oceans
From between the spiny frills along palm fronds
From Mr. Happy, the chain smoking chaperone of good times
From Mr. Happy’s half-burnt ****, coiled in the ashtray
From the disciples of Theravada and the skinny Buddha’s pupilless eyes scanning jocose scansions of jungle
From the tanned holy heads of students lounging in graveled football fields
From my bowl of rice at breakfast in the shade while considering western cities, you are not here
‘You are not here,’ I’ve written in my letters
‘You are not here,’ I’ve typed into e-mails immense
You are not here, my coke head pals locked in the veins of seedy nightmares
You are not here, my penniless friends who mix music in ascetic dark rooms out in Bushwick
You are not here in no eastern Central Park running naked in the night from horseback cops after hours of merciless balling in the bushes
You are not here you fair-skinned beauties in crowded alpine funiculars bearing your aquiline noses holding your hats over the mountains
You are not here my lonely mother waiting by the phone for a call at midnight
You are not here, you are not in my poems, you are not in the distorted notes harpsichorded across my crass imagination
You are not here, you will not be here, will you read my letters home?

tear filled eyes
i can’t rub you from my being

a new day breaks
the sun rises
my heart sinks

i've lost you

Life is
being
a being
in a big place
doing one thing
after another
for about eighty years.
Mystery solved!