i dreamt of leaving last night
i dreamt of running as far away
as my chubby legs would take me,
I followed winter across the planet
wiping snow flakes off my cheek
and dancing just before dawn
in the **** in the top end of France.
I dreamt of chasing rabbit dreams
down their holes and stumbling.
I dreamt of drowning in smoke
and playing guitar with a cigarette
in my mouth on a street in New York.
I dreamt of taking flowers from a garden
just outside of London,
mischief, i dreamt of that too.
Singing til my lungs were burnt,
and only sleeping when I'd pass out.
I dreamt of all these things,
and everytime I close my damp eyes
you are always there
And I dreamt we chased winter
around the world together.

she was a woman in every way:

petty, conniving, back-stabbing,
the sort of girl who cared when
somebody wore the same dress,
a person who rants endless and
then complains about those who
voice an opinion, she's had dozens
of men caught in her web (but has
only slept with two of them), she
reveals just enough skin to entice
but never enough to satisfy, she
is smart, she is desirable, and she
thrives on being needed

too many times I'd let myself
get involved with her

she'd spend weeks, winking
and nudging, sending every
signal that this time she was
going to bite back, and that's
why she enjoyed it even more
when she flipped the switch
and went cold forever (at least
until she decided to play with
me again)

she cares if she was the first
to hear that song, it matters
that she doesn't ever really
care, everyone else is worse
than her (in all the ways she
can think of), and time and
time again I've let her get
a hold of me, **** me dry,
and leave me for dead

she's a queen amongst spiders,
a rattlesnake in brazier, god of
hate and deception, ignorant
of her own ignorance, the center
of her own convoluted universe

she's wrong in nearly
every way

but, god,
she turns me on.

I am stretched out my bed
as the fan whirls furiously above me
and the TV people dance
their dance on mute
and the music pours out
of my speakers

this book of poems
is very good

it’s got Bukowski and Ginsberg,
who I already know,
and people with names like
“Jack Grape” and
“Sharon Olds”

(though I have not gotten
to their poems yet)

it's a book all about
the poets who dared
to not be
“poets”

the ones who wrote
about *******
in simple terms
and
wrote about their fights
with their landlords
and their ex-girlfriends

they wrote of drinking
and of hang-overs

of jobs they did not like
and dreams they would never fufill

they described love
as it was
and
not as it should
be

this  is the sort of poetry I write,
or at least, I attempt to write
and laid out on my twin bed
I felt very much one of them

inspired only by the improbability
of my existence

I am
flotsam drifting with the currents,
experiencing each wave
and smiling at the chance
to bask in the sunshine

When you joke you sound so serious
And I never seem to get it until it’s too late

You like order and tradition
I listen to Christmas songs in July.

Our moods never seem to match
You seem to thinks that that’s just fine.

But I don’t understand.

I’m always worried, it seems,
That I’ll somehow let you down
And in doing so, I’ve succeeded.

I always do the best that I can
to look good for you
you complain, “it isn’t needed.”

You’re family only likes the ‘Normal’
Whatever that is
But I stick out like a sore thumb.

From my hair and it’s ever-changing colors,
To my jeans with their pictures and quotes,
...That are drawn on with sharpies...
and the paint stains that cover them from time to time!

Because of all of this, I worry.

Am I too weird?
Is my rainbow-like hair too odd?
Are my drawn on jeans ,
My crazy belly dancing skirts,
And pentagram necklaces,
Simply too strange?

What of my love of olives?
And how I ***** up my face when I think?
Do you not like how I spend hours on my computer,
Working on one picture (trying to make it just right)?

Or how, when I choose to color my art by hand,
I walk away with paint all over me (Even on my cheeks),
And an oddly proud grin plastered on my face?

I worry, and pace,
For days on end, at times,
Wondering if you really love me.

And when you finally see me,
The weird, colorful,  oddball that I am
You smile, and kiss me,
saying "i've missed you so much!"

And I know that I worried for nothing,
That you are different from your parents,
That our beliefs live together in harmony,
That you actually like the odd faces I make when I'm thinking
and the weird colors I dye my hair,
And that you really, truly love me—

Paint stains and all.

you can
turn your back
on poetry
but
she will never
turn her back
on you

you cannot hurt her,
she is long beyond
that

no matter how long
you wait

she will welcome you back,
hugging you against her breast,
reminding you there is still
goodness in this world

so stray,
if you must,
go beat the bushes,
try to find a new way to
settle your restless
spirit

but you will not
and you will return
and that first poem
will be as sweet as grape juice
and as intoxicating as wine
and you will wonder how
the two of you ever
found yourself apart

Sing to me.

Even if your voice is raspy,

And you can not sing,

Love me enough to sing to me,

In the dark,

As you take my hand,

And lead me into your arms.

Sing to me your favorite song,

Or of the fears that plagued you when you were young.

I will memorize the melody,

As I listen to the vibrations,

That your vocal chords conjure up,

As I lean my head against your chest.

Let your insecurities lay at my feet,

And sing to me.

And if you can’t bring yourself to do so,

I’m willing to listen to you hum.