I can't sleep
Everytime I remember your words
They snap and recoil
And hurt me awake
Next time when someone
Promises me forever
I'll just smile
Look them in the eyes and ask
How long is forever to you.

Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013

I said "don't forget me",
and you smiled,
hollowed out my eyes,
with matches for fingernails,
placed them like ice cubes,
in your glass of peroxide,
won't you swallow it?
as if it does not burn,
your crooked throat,
because I know you have wounds,
stitched in your esophagus,
from spitting fire.

She crawls into bed tonight
wearing nothing but;
little bits of dignity.

So I tore them
quickly away from her;
as I've been drinking again.

She


is a beautiful
giantess

painted with
blushing
rose-colored hues like

peaches-
-and-
cream;

her
soft hair
coils and
coils
of gold
with colors of
wild wheat
and
honey
twisted
throughout it;

with eyes
the color of the fairest
skies
in the world,
like ice cubes
with little dark blue flecks
of a mysterious
azure
stone,
cool and penetrative
and frighteningly
intense.
Actually,
they’re more like a Caribbean
Sea,
like when the waters shift
from a tender cerulean
to an amazing aquamarine…
and in the sun,
to the side,
they're the slightest hint of green…

Her
cheeks
are
blooming,
rugged
peonies
and her eyebrows
full
and the color of
sand
and
straw;
her
lips
ruddy plums
in every season of the year;
her gorgeous teeth
hug each other closely,
and when
she
smiles,
it’s a little
gift
from heaven…
her laugh is
infectious,
a hiccup of
giggles…


her arms are
pure shades of
pale
pink
petals
and in the summer,
graciously tanned: the lightest,
most
beautiful
bronze, a color
all
her
own.

Her
hands are
large
and
rough
and
strong,
wrapping one's own and all else
in a manner most

complete

and

indestructibly;

her demeanor is thrilling
and irresistible
and

intense.

her
moods
are
unknown
and
ever-changing….

pry into her

feelings

long
enough
and you will
meet
an
abyss

and never return

and
never

learn

anything
at all.

Her
eyes
are

immense

innocent

expressive

,

pupils darting to

everything

happening

at

once;



when she
walks, she’s
proud
and direct
and
she’s
the

light

of the
world;
everywhere
she
goes,
she
illuminates the
paths she chooses to
grace;
she carries the
torch of strength and beauty and mischief

and

daunts, races

the

flames --

she’s as

spontaneous

as they
are.

I learned in a class once
That people are attracted to
Romantic partners who are
About as attractive
As they are,
And I thought of him
(I didn't linger long)
Then I thought of you.

And I think you're
Pretty handsome
And I think my hair
Looks good today.

And I think then it's
Not my fault,
Because both of us,
We're pretty okay.

And I want a chance
To see your
Pretty okay
Under London streetlights
As the fog rolls in,
Wet sidewalk slow.

But you told me there's no
Fog in London and
That florescent lights
Don't burn yellow.

You told me "look me up
When you come to London"'
You turn from me
In the streetlamp's glow.

'Q