The problem with money & drugs is there's never
enough.

Too much is not enough.
Too little is not enough.

I have a problem —
money & drugs

but
my real problem isn't
money & drugs, or
too much and
not enough,

they just keep my mind from
the 'problem' that is

me.

Women are like cigarettes.

When I'm finished with each,
I think about the other
while I stare at
their butts . . .

I won't force
you to

hear me.

I won't force
you
to

listen.

I don't think about you anymore —
like an over-washed
shirt.

Faded.

Dull.

Stained and
torn.

Worn out.

Tired.

Used through time, and
used from
use.

I've used you too many times.

I’ve revisited your memory too much.

I'll keep you in my closet

like my worn, tired
faded
old shirt,

hidden, until there is
nothing else
to wear.

How will I ever
tell you
how much I missed you

if you never
come back?

in the rain-
darkness,     the sunset
being sheathed i sit and
think of you

the holy
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
of smiles

your eyes half-
thrush
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss

and
there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair
and then

your dancesong
soul.     rarely-beloved
a single star is
uttered,and i

think
       of you