Back when I was a kid, the stretch of empty wasteland under a cloudless sky was my entire world. The sun was always out, beating down hot on my neck, and minus the occasional break, the cars kept on coming and the people kept on going. I hadn't yet a reason to believe that the highways had an end. I figured that if I kept walking, I'd somehow make it back to where I started. I never considered the possibility that I would run out of places to search for whatever it is I was looking for. If I would have known that nothing is infinite, I might have taken the time to remember the things I thought it wouldn't matter to forget.

I wish winds could die with just a kiss from my lips
oh how famous I would be
I wish the sun would dim at my gaze
oh how famous I would be
I wish snow would melt at my breath
oh how famous I would be
I wish the flowers would bloom with my touch
oh how famous I would be
Oh how famous and how experimented I would be

For when you
pace the way
the words
pause, accent,
and stress,
you add to
ideas
which stand
fine on
their own
terms.
And the words
will never breathe.
And the breath
shall be that
which makes
you and that
eye which scans,
one and whole
or making love.

"Not suppose to love him
He is mine
Not suppose to smile at him
He is mine
Not suppose to look at him
He is mine"
"Do not claim him,
He is his own
Do not speak for him,
He is his own
Do not live for him,
He is has his own"

You sit and swig one, two, three
because you know he will not be home

You take a drag one, two, three
because he hates it when you smoke

You wait until it is dark, dark, dark
to walk far away from home

You like him but you also like him and him
just in case one lets you down

And when the light shines through the curtain,
onto his worn out chest, you turn to the dark shadow
to pick up the ashtray and the shattered glass

You lift the hood above your head and close your eyes so still
because you know he will be back and you will feel fulfilled.