I want her again.
She's the rush that always hit you first, and made you less wary.
Takes any edge of yours that cut me, off clean.
Gives you no reason to be mean.

I want her again.
She dampens me quicker
than you could think you're not enough without trying.
Goads you into wanton wanting.

I want her again.
She pulled us closer together and then made us grateful.
You claimed she was synthetic,
but to me, she was my love undressed, tenfold.

I want her again.
She may have been fueled by chemicals,
but pulled your guard down for a little.
Just long enough, for my magic to work.

I want her again.
She set me free in your eyes.
But mostly
because she let you want me.

my insomnia has gifted me unexpectedly
on this pre dawn morning.
i share the beach
with a single sand plover and a large work crew of sandbubbler *****
as they work their spherical graffitti magic.

i expect if i thought long enough,
my mind may make the practical connection, between the darting and bobbing of the stiff stilt,
red, legged bird
and the hyperalert scurryings of soft shelled, orb infatuated, crustaceans.

but, i prefer to play peekaboo witb the sun,
as it peeks it's sleepy rotound rim over the rippling bedsheets of the ocean's horizon.
eyes blinking, crafting opulent dusky lavenders and apricot oranges,
that meander lazily across, the brightening skybed.

i am alone on the beach until,
the next soul comes
this is my kingdom.
i stand firm and
breathe the tang of salted lands.

there is a deep silence
in my soul,
which i take to be completeness.
with neoteric expectancy and unchained exuberance,
i turn and run along
the firm sand's, edge of the high tideline leaving fading, ephemeral footprints
behind me,
scattering the little crabworkers every
which way.
i run in rhythm with the crashing waves
and we eat up the sand
until i am spent.

i sit and watch as the riders of the wave arrive.
their lithe young frames silhouetted by sunlight,
they stand at ten feet tall.
i wave and hand my kingdom over to the knights on fibreglass coursiers.
they mount their steeds
and begin the morning's tidal hunt,
for the perfect wave

Catch me in the act.

Catch me destroying
evidence
on the riverbank.

Evidence of daydreams,
of picnics in the grass.
Grass so green it has
never thirsted
But drank so heavily
when we spilled that 2005 bordeaux.

I promise you:
this is not a poem.

This the red-winged blackbird,
narrating (singing)
as I push you on a swing.
catch me smiling, helplessly,
when you turn around

Catch me because I’ve fallen
not because you pushed me;
I never watch
where I’m going

All of those identities that end in "t" and "r" and "n,"
make us feel god awful and self-conscious.
Singer, artist, writer, musician, mortician, poet.
Who entitles us to use them?

And it's true, your voice touches in between my shoulders,
and melts to the bottom of my stomach when you croon,
but you don't find yourself an apt enough player of the voice box.

And sure, painting the reasons why I woke from your dream,
might seem like I'm an artist, but I rather just say...
I enjoy painting.

And right, we like to etch words into books and alchemize
the desire to question into stories,
but we're just fans of reading.

And you know, when the air cradles the harmonies of your guitar
like newborn unicorns, I want to point and claim,
though you think you know too little to call yourself musician.

And yes, the way we lay our bodies to sleep every night sometimes hopeful we don't rise again,
is much like how we treat our desire to declare ourselves,
but that makes us only those who give the dead away.

And of course, my blood courses in order to stitch and weave worded thoughts like these together,
because they lighten our concerns and brighten our better qualities,
so of course,
yes,
I know,
Right,
Sure,
It's true,
I am a...
I might dabble in poetry, here and there. No big deal.