you
you think this a lot
with emphasis
a one word blame
disappointment, you suppose

but you don't think it at other people
oh,
oh, they're fine.
its you
because what the *****
is wrong with you

you still haven't figured that bit out yet

bit by bit
you lose yourself
things you were
things you did
they're gone now
maybe you remember them
maybe you don't
(you think you don't)
you think there used to be so much more
but now
now it's just you
waiting in the parking lot
pavement cracked and covered in chewing gum
the lights flickering
like fires among the rows of houses
flickering like candles put out in a rush during a black-out
and you're staring at these lights
waiting
watching them flicker
flicker
flicker
until its the
last
light
out

Lust got hold of me
the other day.
Grabbed me by the tongue and the ear,
then moved on down.
It’s not as elegant as love,
perhaps, but
sometimes lust just
consumes me
and completely blows
my mind. And yes,
I end up teetering on the edge of
lewdness, which is a very intense place
on which to teeter. In fact,
I've found that a bit of unbridled lust
is a wonderful prelude to love,
and I don’t feel guilty in the slightest
about teetering while being unbridled.
You can always bridle yourself up later.
So there!

Lust is a sin everyone will enjoy,
from the bums in the courtyard,
mingling and thrusting ***** privates,
to the chaste; to you and me, and celibate,
The celibate lust for self-recognition,
for their gods,
for a higher purpose,
To strive is to lust and to lust,
it is only human to lust for comfort,
for control,
for order.
Goals of every sect are prized,
Sought after are the lusts
that guide us,
that energize the batteries in our backs,
tells us to do crazy things,
some promote devastation.

Navy blue marble mornings,
Still clinging to the shiver of darkness.
Aching in my fingers and ears
Evidencing the zephyr's unkind caress.
An oppressive silence devouring cars and footsteps,
Pets and conversation.
Yet it is embraced, the stillness a balm,
Lending wise council within the maelstrom of thought.
Remarkably conducting the chaos into a concerto.
City stars keeping a staccato beat on the horizon,
A silent purpose statement in the ebb of the valley.
Ay, there's the rub.
How does one free the oppressed who are convinced they are free?
Like elephants bound in twine,
They are potently capable,
Needing only to see past sin's ostentatious facade.
But like the caged bird, they celebrate premature freedom.