Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

Poet to my eyes, you are the sight of whitecaps
On the sea water, or the sudden turn of a bird
In flight and as the wave I roll and break,
With drowning wings that lift toward you, my sky.

Mistress to my soul, I am the nave of your holy
Cathedral.  My head is but an occluded riff,
De-noting songs you make in aisling airs of light
Polyphony, my star over-sings the windy globe,

She swallows heaven, like swallows blacken the dusk.
Shearwater bird, strip my surface with your cutting
Wings.  My waves peak to reach you starling girl.

The sloughing chill of winter dies quick in sighs
Waft asunder my little Indian summer, wake me
From sleep and I shall dream but once for your kiss.

i keep whispering
your name to the sky
and all it does
is weep
and turn grey
and blue
and black
like my heart

sword stuck stomachs,
we are drifting into a tide
of something with an aftertaste
hinting of shame, of nights of
reaching out and not finding
you. god, i am trying,
believe me i am trying,
but you looped my lungs around
your left index finger and put
yourself in charge of the labor
of my breaths and I am
here
here
hopelessly here,
glued to the blue of your eyes
and trying to capture every word
as they slip from your mouth.

She tastes like the sun
that our bitter lives made.

And perhaps this truth
is why we can't be saved.

For the starlit girl
speaks against our false truths.

Not so innocent,
yet full of passion's youth.

The lunar eclipse
is not enough for her.

We are the disease.
And she? She is the cure.

no longer relevant
noisily devoured  
by a gaping hole
stuffed to capacity
then shoveled
into a bin
marked for permanent exile
an anonymous
paper trail
that use to lead
to my life.