San Francisco beat lit blues,
got Raymond Carver in my bag
on the train, flipping
through my pages, thinking
of you, my dear.

Soft knuckles, big hands
clumsy enough to take
hold of a pen and write
something beautiful;
paint me a picture with
words when I'm old and grey
stuck in a nursing home
wishing we'd met.


Eating fruit in a distant park,
hardened heart due to constant
responsibility; foolish actions,
little girl in a ford hits
a truck and cries for him.

Man with the soft knuckles, big hands,
beautiful unforgettable ocean-coloured
eyes.

Come into me, I invite you:
Swim in between these open layers
of flesh and take flight
within me.

Dispersed genetics on a dreary hour,
I've got you in my mind
Mapping out the design of your face,
and loving every second of it.

Sit now in this cafe with me
and we'll play a game of chess:

I am thinking of taking your queen,
and putting two sugars in my coffee
at the same time.

We're talking about you and me now
and the sun is slowly fading behind
cobbled stones and Christmas lights
that illuminate this pulsing city
all throughout the night.

I hear your words, and they hit my heart
like a harp that's playing by itself
in the dark.

We're back to our thoughts and expectations
we're talking about that night
I drank too much and revealed my
lacerations
of past love affairs and difficult
family tidings
but let's not go there,
I'm on a winning streak.

The smell of coffee and earl grey honeyed-out
tea is making my nose twinge with notions
of good deeds.

Your hair frames your face in such a sophisticated
way;
who wouldn't fall in love with you
if I went away?

More than anything,
there is a feeling in my heart
that says I love you so,
but I've imprinted in your delicate place
for far too long.

Yet here I am,
questioning everything
as we play this game
in the middle of a cobblestone
town where the Christmas lights
shine above us
and the smell of pastries and
sinful delights
evoke a response that can disembody
me tonight.

I question myself: Do I love you?
I answer myself: I do not know.

Love is such a fickle thing,
and yet here we are,
passing glances
and your face is carved
into my camera lens
smiling back at me
and not knowing
how much doubt
comes into my soul
when I look at you.

Tied to the mailbox,
no letters to come,
I wait for the
arrival of your
printed thumb.

Down by the creek,
near the old piano
shoppe I seem to think
of you and your words
as they roll off my tongue.

Russet brown hair,
and hazel grey eyes
I align your lips
with the stars in the sky.

Your meager frame,
and taciturn disposition
leaves me standing on the
edge of repetition:

"I love you,
I love you,
I love you," and I retract
"But I know I cannot have you,
take my love
to be like the moon
in the sky
above the stars
and you can sit on me
my boy
with the many spoons
and I'll love you forever
if only in this dream,
this abstract
non-existing
dream
where you and me
cease to be
but come together
to be one
my boy
with the many spoons
let me be your sacred moon."

I trace the ink on the edge
of this crisp & yellow envelope
and map out trace remnants of
your fingerprints

You are the sun
to me
and I reflect all your
beauty
back to you and the world
yet I only show this secret
to strangers
in the night
& to the stars
dancing their lonely
dance
waiting for a friend
alone
in this dark and empty
sky

On Saturn again

watching you exist silently

on the moon.



The craters keep you company

as you pick up a silver spoon.

You stick it in your mouth—

Ah, what fortune in this!



Alas, the elation is short lived.

I saw a flaxen haired girl from Venus

make her way to you.



She flew across the stars, her hair turned

a lighter shade of blonde by the sun,

and like an angel she existed in your presence.



Like the rest, those from Pluto and Mars,

you sent her back to sail across the stars

lingering on your ideals of staring down at the

Earth with unruly disdain—

I’ll watch you from Saturn

as blood drips through my veins.



I question your motives,

Your heartless façade

but deep down inside

I’ll love you more

than that of the moon

and the stars.

At night when the house is empty
I sit by the TV and listen for
sounds of distortion.

I raise the volume so
the noise will keep
me company before
the loneliness starts
to swell.

I’ll pass the hallway and
examine the telephone
and think of people to call.

There is a void in my heart
as I pace by family relics
paintings & abstract china galore.

I feel a disconnection to my house
my soul
and this world.

I speak in tongues as the coffee maker
is touched by my thumb—
fields of nightingales disperse in my mind
as an image of you crosses my eye.

Grey eyes, delicately presented ****** hair,
and a smile of a boyish  innocence
I wish to possess if not in the form of you
but deep within my aged soul.

Come now, it’s seven past one,
and I am dreaming of a resolution
to this damning feeling that corrodes my
soul and disembodies a future
stained within.