My closed heart cannot love anyone
I believed so
but my heart is opening before I knew it

My hardened heart cannot be thrilled
Again,
I believed so
but my heart pounds every time I see you

Let us go now into the forest.
Trees will pass by your face,
and I will stop and offer you to them,
but they cannot bend down.
The night watches over its creatures,
except for the pine trees that never change:
the old wounded springs that spring
blessed gum, eternal afternoons.
If they could, the trees would lift you
and carry you from valley to valley,
and you would pass from arm to arm,
a child running
from father to father.

I talked to a cat the other day,
No, that’s not lingo for dude,
I literally talked to cat,
I asked this cat,
“Hey cat, why are you always laying around?”
And it said told me,
“Because human, sometimes you just have to relax,
Stop moving all the time and take a moment to breathe.”

I talked to a dog the other day,
I asked,
“Why is your tail always wagging?”
He said,
“Because I find happiness in the little things,
I’m joyful because I have food to eat,
And because someone loves me.”
“But sometimes your owner gets mad at you,
Why do you go back to him?”
He said,
“Life is too short, it isn’t worth hating,
Forgive and keep on smiling.”

I talked to a rat the other day,
I didn’t have to ask him much,
“What’s the point of living when you’re known as ****,
What’s the point when you’re just a rat?”
He told me,
“Man, life isn’t about what anyone else thinks,
It’s about choosing to be who you want to be,
Accept that fact and you’ll be free.”

I talked to a bird the other day,
I asked her,
“Why are you always singing?”
She told me,
“Because music brings me peace,
In times of pain, it rescues me.”

I talked to a man the other day,
I asked him,
“What’s the purpose of life?”
He stared blankly for a few moments.
And then, with his head down,
He uttered three simple words,
“I don’t know.”

Sometimes its alright to look to the simple creatures,
Instead of the almighty man, for a little bit of wisdom.

Of course,
None of this actually happened,
Because animals can’t speak.

Or can they?

I use to be in the closet
I use to go through all these false motions
Feel all these fake emotions
I would put the straight face on
But I would always feel out of place

The closet was where I would pack away all my insecurities.
I would put them in boxes for later so I could look back at the dark memories.
And whenever I felt threaten
I would hide in the closet.

But the walls would sometimes come too closely
I would get claustrophobic
As it suffocated me slowly.

Running out of oxygen, I would pelt the door with my fists to be let out  
I would scream, beg and shout to be let out
And when I finally mustered the strength to cross the threshold
I was shoved back in
I was told that I couldn’t love him
That I should have never been
I love you but I hate your sin.
Time and Time again.

I fought as they shut the door and turned the lock
I was in the closet but this time the new me wanted to be free
The half king, Half queen me wanted some liberty.
I tore the hinges from the closet door off
I tore down the walls and pounded them into dust
And after looking at my beautiful destruction I felt justice

Because the closet is man-made invention
To keep us under control.
The story no one mentions but they know it by heart
So they stay away and not wanting any comprehension.
It’s something they use to stifle us so we won’t make a sound.
Something that will keep our feelings hidden in the background.
So it won’t mess up their “beautifully normal” foreground.

But I say no more

No more should we have to go back to the closet
To where we must feel shame
To where we must bear chains
To where we have many names
To where it gets dies, our flame

The closet must be, no more

While I was sleeping,
you snuck in through the window.
I can only hope you had the usual
sly grin stretched across your lips.

You had a strict agenda
& pockets full of good intentions.
Slinking around the perimeter
of my living room,
you gingerly fondled each piece of my literature
& slipped little folds paper
between the pages of every book.

In green ink,
you had written snippets of song lyrics
& the quotes less quoted
by those famous individuals
we had both come to admire.

It was a dream,
& in it, I grew older.
But I continued to discover them—
flashes of green
slow-floating to the floor
whenever I’d crack open one of their tired spines.

I’m glad you can manage
to seep into my subconscious
now and again,
& trick me
**into dreaming in color.

My imagination
is the all-encompassing *****.
Composed of touchable red curves,
she speaks
in dark, melted tones that drip
& cool to harden at their destination.

She’s the sort of insatiable pursuit
most boys are taught to desire.
She’s the well-spoken lady
most gentlemen deserve.

She transfigures into
the most verboten temptations
& acts as the pair of arms
that will suddenly slam you up against a wall.
She eases into you with her starved gaze
& examines your every possible inch.
She leaves you with nothing to hide.

Scrupulous? Undeniably so.

She touches whatever she wishes
with gloveless fingertips
& ***** your mouth dry
of all bitter objection.
She leaves you speechless--
but smiling.

My imagination?
She is a bombshell,
& I think I like her better than me.

I don’t much care for
this summer heat anymore.
No one likes to touch.

I much prefer fall—
its chilled breezes and need for
some warm, close contact.

Tighter hugs, stronger
drinks, shorter days, and longer
nights with encouraged

cuddling, cuddl—
ing, cuddling, cuddling,
cuddling— you dig?

[I’m not sure if you can]
call them “fantasies.”

I prefer “scatological reveries.”

Usually,
that small porthole of time
just before sleep comes—
that’s where I oversee my
little light bulb factory.
It churns out countless
watts of bright notions—
whose warm light
paints descriptions on still walls
& outlines what exactly it is
that I intend to do to you.

These temporary art forms
are incredibly specific—
down to the slightest detail.
[For example:
the amount of pressure I’d apply
as I sink my fingernails
into the bare skin
of your back.]*

Some nights I go to bed
with my windows open
& I imagine so loudly—
I’m sure the neighbors can hear.

I hope *[they have popcorn on hand.]

By Wednesday
I’m ready to
         unhook
              unhinge
                    unfold.
Peel this pale skin
right off these overtaxed bones
& let my soul sip
on all of the thoughts
I scolded myself
for thinking
while I walked
across the company parking lot.

I’m sure she would tell you
that those sipped thoughts—
they taste like slow jazz.
They envelop the tongue
without permission
& casually uncoil into
all of the beautiful,
tasteless language
that is able to seamlessly
twist and bewitch.

I’m sure she would tell you
that anything
worth a sip
is forbidden,
as she cups her palms
& presses them to your lips.

“Have a drink,” she’ll say,
   “You need some color
                       in those cheeks.”