A poet is made of many things
On the surface you'll see skin
Stretched across weary bones
Often with scars
Open them up and you'll see a heart
Broken, but held together with broken promises
Where their intestines should be are rivers of passion, Deep as oceans
Stomachs have been replaced with galaxies
Starlight guides them
A poet is stitches together with maybes
With could have beens and should have beens
Some poets are cities; walls built by torment, but beautiful
Some are fields of wildflowers; hearts as fickle the breeze that guides them
And others, others are oceans
Strong, yet gentle, following no one but the moon
The one thing that ties us all together in the love in our eyes despite the hurt
The way we see the world in a beautiful light no matter our trauma
What ties us all together is the fact that we
We survived

I have kissed boys

Girls

People in between

But lately I have been kissing bottles

Their lips are colder than yours

But slowly I have realized that the pounding headache when I wake is less hurtful than the shattering in my chest

Yet as these toxins rush through my veins

I can't help but miss the tracing of your fingers along my skin

Miss the numbness of the world when you lie with me

But when I wake I remember that a headache is treated with an aspirin

While heartache

Well if you have a cure for Heartache let me know

I left my heart on a subway bench.  
I’m in need of a transplant anyway.
It’s hard to say
If this incident
was truly a mistake
or something purposeful.

Maybe I just forgot to leave a note.
“Free to a good home..”

It’s a ****** nest
of faulty wiring.
It’s as honest as a metronome
but as chewed up as a stray.

I couldn’t sell it.
I couldn’t give it away.

Reluctantly,
I’ll drag it home
on a leash.  
I’ll shove it back
into the cage of my ribs
and wait for another stubborn start.
Guess I’ll have to jail it
like some unwanted beast
howling half-forgotten lines
to pass the time;

If I only had a-

it
takes
a lot of
desperation
dissatisfaction
and
disillusion
to
write
a
few
good
poems.
it's not
for
everybody
either to
write
it
or even to
read
it.

I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a
train and that they never were recovered.
I can't match the agony of this
but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem
upon this computer
and through my lack of diligence and
practice
and by playing around with commands
on the menu
I somehow managed to erase the poem
forever.
believe me, such a thing is difficult to do
even for a novice
but I somehow managed to do
it.

now I don't think this 3-pager was immor-
tal
but there were some crazy wild lines,
now gone forever.
it bothers more than a touch, it's some-
thing like knocking over a good bottle of
wine.

and writing about it hardly makes a good
poem.
still, I thought somehow you'd like to
know?

if not, at least you've read this far
and there could be better work
down the line.

let's hope so, for your sake
and
mine.

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again

"Hank!"

Hank won't
answer.

it's not my death that
worries me, it's my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.

I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her

even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:

I love
you.

you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress.
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but I am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one
of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
but they are
there
and I am
here.

To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine--
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room.
...in the morning
they're out there
making money:
judges, carpenters,
plumbers, doctors,
newsboys, policemen,
barbers, carwashers,
dentists, florists,
waitresses, cooks,
cabdrivers...
and you turn over
to your left side
to get the sun
on your back
and out
of your eyes.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985