It's a wonder
this old road
does not have
my footprints
etched into it.

You smell of
cheap laundry detergent
and my favourite memories.

Gunned down
on the front lines
of historical progress
are the best,
the brave,
the exhausted
and those
who have always
been fighting
for change.

Careful boy,
with love that shows
you're still unsteady
but passion grows
you've been disarmed
and now she knows
you're careful boy,
but that love shows.

Careful boy,
she'll see inside
your act is thinning
her eyes are wide
you know you're sinning
so save your hide
be careful boy,
she'll see inside.

Careful boy,
don't think those things
you let her believe
in diamond rings
you'll never know
the power that brings
so careful boy,
don't think those things.

Careful boy,
don't talk that way
she's hanging on
to the things you say
if you let go
with her, they'll stay
so careful boy,
don't talk that way.

You will feel the space
between sounds,
between your fingers
and your faces,

it will hurt your ears
to communicate
any desire to touch,
to see, to hear,

and when you taste
their absense,
it will become far too easy
to long for their perfume
on your pillows.

Dear good men,

if you observe
bad men
and do nothing,
say nothing,
help nothing,
stop nothing,
change nothing,
inform no one,
educate no one,
or remain
uneducated,
uninformed
yourselves,
you are not
good men.
Good men
must stop
letting bad men
prove good men
do not exist.

Good men
are a myth.
If you are good,
and you believe
you have others
to compare yourself to,
you are not good enough.
Good men must see bad men
and must help them understand
how they can strive to be better men.

Good man,
if you observe
a bad man
and do nothing,
say nothing,
help nothing,
you are also
a bad man.

A pair of imperfect bodies
is all we outwardly are,
but there is a warmth,
a rich, devoted touch,
an understanding
and a strength
that reassures
both of our
imperfect
hearts
that we
are already
more than we
thought we were.

I mean,
It's not
like I'm
falling
for you
on purpose.

Dear man in the moon,

I am beyond saving,
but there are others
that need you
far more than I do.

You have raindrops
from storm clouds
on the windows
through which
you see the world.

You should probably
wipe off your glasses.

I'm rusted,
worn and tired
like the bronze strings
I keep forgetting to play
and the swings I left alone.

I'm leaving the city forever
though here, forever, I'll stay
I'm turning blue and me and you
have nowhere new to play.
There are no rivers in the city of blue
and tears do not see colour,
the sky is turning everything dull
and we don't breathe the sea.

Singing songs of simple sweetness,
we sit and stare at soundless skies.
Your call caresses cloud and crevace,
while mine can scarce hold on.
In sleep, it seems we see ourselves,
awake, we will not wonder
why we leave our wonder wary,
when we sing and stare at the sky.

Life is relentless
and love is grey,
our hands get tired
and our feet don't stay.

I can speak only for myself,
but I also know
I'm not the only one
trying to navigate
a series of *****-ups,
misunderstandings
and blown opportunities.
I'm trying to figure out how to balance
being in school full-time,
holding multiple jobs,
maintaining a social life,
understanding a relationship,
missing my family,
not being able to afford books
and remembering to eat or sleep.
God knows
you've got it harder than I do.
No one deserves
to go through crap on top of that,
but we always do anyway.
I'm surely going to be
an ******* sometimes.
I'll do what I can not to be,
but it's never been enough before,
and I don't see that changing.
All I hope for
is someone to talk to,
send stupid messages,
bounce homework answers off of,
have coffee with
when we should be
doing that homework.
I owe you that.

I like to call you
when I'm not really awake.
I only leave you messages, of course.
For I only let myself call
(I only allow myself
that poisonous release)
when I'm alone on the subway,
which happens very rarely.
So whatever I say gets lost
between forty-three thousand tonnes
of the strongest, sturdiest concrete
and the sky.

Dear boy in the mirror,

Where
have you
been?

"Tell me
you love me
in your language,"
they said.

I stayed quiet.

The duchess of Kipling
does not speak to me.
She stands outside
with her sweater and hat
and we don't even see.
The duchess of Kipling
has nothing to say,
for we forget to listen
outside a rushing subway.  
A simple "hello,"
is all I can offer,
and maybe a dollar or two -
nothing that helps
as much as we say
we all continually want to.
Her mouth hardlined
and shoes too small,
she's still surprised
I say anything at all.
As if "hello" and a sandwich
could give her a home.

"Did you miss me?"
wondered the water,
beautiful and cold

"Where have you been?"
wondered the dock,
groaning with age

"Was it worth it?"
wondered the breeze,
wise and curious

"What have you become?"
wondered your shoes,
kicked off beside you

"Have you forgotten?"
wondered your reflection,
remembering everything.

Do not be
the candle left
in the hurricane,

be the warmth
in the shelter
from the storm.

Dear man in the moon,

There are awful things on the ground,
and we can't escape the sun.
It's far worse here than when I was found,
but my days with you are done.

Dear man in the moon,

I will rarely tell you what is true,
but you and I
have a lot of catching up to do.

Dear man in the moon,

It seems I'll not be joining you,
certainly not anytime soon.
You needn't worry
or wonder why,
for I'll cherish my days
below the sky.

"Hi, it's me,"
they said,
and you knew,
so you smiled.

I'd wake up
beside you
to tell you
I love you,
but you
are too
far away.

I guess, sometimes
we leave people behind.
In the time it took for me
to see this was to be,
I must have left a few,
and I'm sorry if it was you.
But then again, perhaps I'm not -
you're better now, and if you forgot,
then I'm glad you did, it must be grand
to live with some ghosts you understand.

I read it
a few times
and then again
and again and again
even though I do know
you really, truly miss me.

Only the foolish are faithful,
and only the faithful are foolish.
Isn't that wonderful?

I would tell you
                    that time is money,
                              if I had any of either.

                    I do not, and neither do you,
           so please understand,

                              your time
                                        is your life.

Every time I feel close to you,
I feel like running away,
which is exhaustingly ironic
because every time I run away,
you try to get closer.

"I shall always
be second to the sky,"
the clouds admitted to the sea.
The sea did not think this was so.
"I may reflect the blue when I'm still,
but you hold me like the sky never will."

I laughed quietly,
showing my grin through a smile,
looking up at her
as I lay my head in her lap.
Her stomach rose and fell against my ear,
and I felt her voice in my neck and shoulders
whenever she spoke.
It was dark outside
and not much lighter where we were,
a consignment store lamp
illuminating the tired couch
I somehow brought up the ****** tiny stairwell
in the back of the building
I know I can't really afford to live in.

It tastes of tired days
and warm, bitter privilege.
Toaster waffles from the freezer,
table syrup from the drug store
down the road from the fire escape.
Blueberries I shouldn't have bought
from a sleepy market near work.
I don't have a toaster
or even a microwave,
but I took my best shot
on the little electric griddle.
It wasn't a very good one,
the shot I took, and the griddle.
The moon would be somewhere
overhead through the smog,
if it weren't for this dull, cracked and beautiful ceiling,
and the floors of blissful ignorance
between me and the sky.
It was very little,
but I could eat,
I could work,
I could live.

If the moon
can embrace
the whole
of the sun,

you **** well
can be kind
to the earth.

This will be one of those things
you'll always be a little sad
that you had to let go of,
but you'll understand
why you could not
keep holding on.

Soundless and dainty,
pencil conserves her careful posterity
while paper pines for it
with everything it ensnares.
Paper blushes black
at the slightest seduction
of graphite gratification,
too innocent for ink
and too addicted to artistry
to just be a paper plane.

I wish my pen to be a dancer,
graceful, strong and wild.
I wish my words to fill with wonder,
curious as a child.
I wish my tongue to shed its silver,
to slow its warm descent,
and to act against the worst of enemies
whose words I can't prevent.

He was going to get her a little plant,
and would be teensy-tiny and green
and the little plant would never die.

He would name it "Neville",
and she would giggle at the name
and the little plant would never die.

He would find her a little cactus,
or an aloe plant that had no spikes
(so she wouldn't ***** her fingers),
and the little plant would never die.

He would remind her to water it,
and she would tell him she forgot,
and it was a good thing he reminded her,
and the little plant would never die.

He would go over and visit it,
and he would visit her while he was at it,
and the little plant would never die.

He would bring her books about plants,
so she would know all about hers,
and the little plant would never die.

He would sing the plant little songs
when he visited the plant and her,
and she would like those little songs,
and the little plant would never die.

He would whisper I love you
to the plant, of course,
but she would hear it,
and the little plant would never die.

He would hear her say it too,
and he would understand,
and the little plant would never die.

But he did not get her a little plant.
The little plant would never die,
but she was not a little plant.