He loves me for who I am, but so do you.
He makes me smile and laugh, but so do you.
He makes me feel safe and warm and chases all the nightmares away,
but so did you,
when you had the chance.

He’s got his problems, and so do you.
And when I left they got worse,
but so would his,
if I left…

And every night I stare at the spots on my ceiling
as I lie awake,
contemplating what the difference really is,

if I’m really happier now,
or if I just like to tell myself so.

The mountains crest in trees gold,
Haze and dew settle to night appease
As the sun rises to words untold.

It's as it's been since days of old;
Changing colors and changing leaves;
The mountains crest in trees gold.

I watch, let the day unfold
As spiders mingle in the eaves;
As the sun rises to words untold.

The cabin sits near a stream cold
Which rushes 'neath the sunrise breeze--
The mountains crest in trees gold.

Calling forth the flight of birds,
the march of ants, the drone of bees--
As the sun rises to words untold.

A glory fairest to behold,
None is greater than of these:
The mountains crest in trees gold
As the sun rises to words untold.

anger;

and all the dewbud roses fall silent in the sway grass breeze;
grasshopper and cricket fight over landing ... but what is that?

bleeding
the pen leaves puddles of unhappy gravity on your pages

and you are nothing without her love

anger;
and her skin sweats blood in the fading sunlight of after-hours.

well,* she said,
and there she took a
pause and a breath and shuddered

a little.
well, I don't really know, I don't
really want to know, I

don't think.
and I knew it wasn't a matter of wanting
but a matter of needing and

she needed to know.
she needed and I said,
I'm sorry;

I didn't mean to--
and she cut me off;
I found myself daydreaming

of you in class and I noticed
she was saying, I didn't know, I
didn't want to know, but it

happened, anyway.
and I wept for her
that night.

I didn't tell her.

Hmm, what's this?--hourglass figure,
trickle sands of time
tick tick tick
tick
Who are youwerbistdu? Hmm, what's this?--a spider,
step veins cry tremor
click click click
dead.

I am growing old
beneath this ceiling.
Mind you, I've always been
growing old,
but I regret growing old
here, in this
ridiculous excuse
of a room.

There are ants, you know.
I don't think they
can wait much longer.
But tell them it's okay,
I'll be in their home
soon enough.

And what is this?
Do you
really expect me to eat --
this?
Would you eat it? Dried lettuce,
old tomatoes, gray pieces of
carrots hiding beneath a sad attempt
at dressing.
Pathetic, that's what they give me here.
Pathetic.

But I bide my time.
Have you seen my poetry
in the hallways?
They've hung some, you know.
It's as if this were
a preschool,
and the nurses were
our teachers,
and the things we do to
keep our minds "busy"
(I prefer "preoccupied")
were things to be proud of.
It's like I'm back where
I started --
just a bit less
naïve.

That man, next door,
do you remember him?
He spoke to you the last time
you visited.
They took him to the back
a few days ago.
Please, son, you have to promise me,
you won't let them
take me there.
No one ever returns.

I think that's where they take us to
die.

*Then she turned to me,
that familiar, cynical smile
I've known all my life stretched
across her face, and she asked,
"What's the difference between
a nursing home and
an asylum?"

And then the frog like blueberry jam
whispers to the fly, “It knows who I am.”
And the whale with a shark tooth, and a laugh in his ear
smiles to the front, and frowns to the rear.
While the man says to me, “Look inside, can’t you see?
At the bottom of the bag is the deep blue sea.”
Hullo? Is anyone there?
Please let the spiders out of my hair.

in the twilight of dawn
I can already hear the shower.
quietly I wonder where the
time went.
I turn over and face the
peeling paint on the wall,
trying to grasp those
vestiges of a dream which
faded to air motes and half-light.

okay, I'll make breakfast today,
and I hope you like oranges.
no, I never bothered to memorize
which fruits you like
in the morning. I know
it's been years, but
I'm not superman and
you knew that when you said
I do.

don't tell me not to
grumble quietly to myself;
I need this bubble of
relative sanity
if I am to survive
5 am showers for
nobody.
you are fresh and clean,
an angel,
and your blowdried hair
frizzes out like a halo.
not a hint of gray.
must be a new color
you're using.

all right, fine,
I won't light a cigarette,
but I also won't
change my shirt.
I like the sweat stains.
they make my profession seem
like work and not
like poetry.

I retreat to
the backroom
where my typewriter sits
upon its unholy altar.
the radio beside it
stands presently silent
amidst the ashes
and crumpled pages.
I would sigh as
I sat down on my sagging chair,
but I am not
a sighing man.

instead, I groan slightly
as my joints protest
in their groggy morning voices
and rest my ***
upon the threadbare cusion
of my favorite
wooden chair.
I find a station on the radio;
something Haydn composed is
floating through,
and I talk to
my secretary.

her voice clicks and clacks
and rings when she breathes.
she's speaking in stanzas
and only I
can silence her.

but this ***** ain't done
confessing just yet.

Too bad you don't know-
Or maybe you do?
The way,
The way I look at you?

You make me smile,
Lazy ***,
Don't you know that?

Please, stop.

You may not understand
me, but that's quite all right,
you know.

You may not know me very
well; well, I may surprise you in
some way,

but that's quite all right you know.

This isn't meant for interpretation,
cryptography,
nothingness.

It is only meant to eat its
wormy way through the wrinkles
in your brain,

the gray matter the white matter
the brain

and linger there like a nerve ending
firing constantly,

giving you a headache.