Who knows what kind
of man I am? I've never
held a child of mine,
my first communion
wasn't official and
my back is dry. I
was in it for wafers
and body of wine.
I'm Stan with no plan
and a nothing
saved man who
only knows he
can but needs
to lay his hand.
Sand or solid land
I am everything
everything and need
no band or some
social media clan
no if buts or ands.

It's not even worth my time
anymore to try and track
where the Rose is going to
grow when the thorns are
all I can harvest even
in the midst of a kiss.

The wind used to blow
a certain swirl that
made you my world
that now just makes my
stomach curl even when

you're genuine but  
we know I'm Cyrano
and all he endured were
low blows and, oh my,
look at that nose,
even in the best pose

all i want to do is fill
your stein because
of the way you make
me feel inside.
These words, not
even Shakespeare's words
can describe how
I am falling for this vibe
and don't want to
get off the ride that's
invaded my mind
in every time

I cant hear your words
they're hiding with the rain clouds,
When they finally fall upon my head
However, hard the sun may shine,
I'll be standing in those shadows
until the end of nothing left.

it didnt matter to me that
you had itchy poison
under your arm, I still
would have held you close
while you say that we can never
be anything more than
what we already are.

It didnt matter to me that
I was on the outside looking
in while on the inside
you're looking up at pulsating
tree leaves while there is
lead socks in your shoes
as the peanut gallery wears
funky hats when you told
me you loved me insignificantly.

It didn't matter to me
you wanted other opportunity,
I knew you'd hang around and
I'd hear your vocal sounds
even if it rained during
shining sun, even if winter
had no spring, I'd linger
and be a singer of your lore.

I have memories here.
The purple flowers
and the "L" tree where I touched
your hair softly and you told
me to stop because I was
only supposed to give you
a heart murmur when there's
no one else left. Now, that the
clocks tick the time,
my arms are not that strong.
Grandfather needs to be
over wound so there might be
a chance somehow

she ties my shoestrings
together. so my feet don't go
independently. while I try to
waltz her musical score
of rests through a series of
misfires from an amygdala,
who thought it knew the
best way to handle
California droughts.
instead, arm hairs burned up
and only a melanoma
of false hope traveled.
skin to heart, to brain but you
nestled in a tender gluteal spot.