Be lucky that it's clear
that I'm here
and not in your ear
making rhymes about
******* and beer.
I'm here
knotting so many fallacies that
I could be queer
but it's clear,
I'm here.

Still here, that is.
Or... maybe I should be lucky.
Let's both not take here for granted.
Even when it aches,
like reality has some sickness
that we can neither cure nor talk down,
we must remember
that we can no more not be here
than we can be in our dreams...
If you can't understand those words
then you're struggling to be here
shifting your eyes like flickering flashlights
they **** away and bang bang bang against the hand of boredom
because the brain is running dry,
I understand.

Be here with me, dear literary vagabond,
peruse my nonsense. Take a bite.
Chew upon the syllables and forgettables,
like soggy vegetables.
Let it all melt in your mind,
like Belgian chocolate (forget the vegetables).
There's nothing here except derangement,
but
have you won the battle?
Are you still here?

The sound of turbulent water
running through the pipes.
The roar of trembling engines,
jostling and towing their vehicles
down the street.
The tap dance of computer keys
mirroring the senility of my mind...
The slamming of doors:
all these sounds,
as if reality is sonically transparent,
but
are you here with me?

This world is more transparent
than I ever gave it credit.
If you're still here,
I bid you welcome
to the magnificent world
of a millennial extravaganza,
growing beyond the cosmos as if
our minds can pierce the heart of dark
and render mystery a pale reflection of
ordinary!

Yes, if you're here,
still here,
things are very ordinary.
And I can never hide that from you.
I can never make you think these words are legendary,
because I'm here,
and I'm not not here,
so you take me for granted
and though I could spin your mind
like a world on my finger,
people will only wish they could be here with me,
when I'm dead,
but if you're reading this,
I'm here.

I’ve sat within that crowded room.
Elbows, like the knobbed tree branches of a forest,
sway with mirth and freedom.
Yet, my heart lost its fire long before.
And as I sat, I sighed the rousing air
of the room with carouseling dancers,
and felt that no one was there; not even myself.

There are many things that solitude can inspire.
We desire what we can only hope to have again.
Yet, how lucky am I? I dream of things I’ve never known.
I see her hug his hip to her hip, whisper in his ear...
What did she whisper?
He will tell one dear friend,
and that friend,
will feel what I feel – a burst of elation, a drop of envy – a deadly cocktail.
And that friend will go on and wonder, “What if she were mine...”
And I know because I was that friend who tasted her in his words. And dreamed.
I dreamed until the dreaming kept me awake
until the dream cannibalized other dreams
until the dream put visions of her in the clouds
until the dreams, dreams, shattered-my-soul!

I was the one who told my friend about her.
I crafted her beauty and charm with such power to disarm, using my silken language,
and he tasted her essence in my words.
So, now I sit here.
I sit here in this room filled with carouseling couples.
I can only sigh,
as I watch her dance.

lying on my mattress
or floor
staring into the
pure
white ceiling.
Thinking, breathing, wanting to scream.
Everything's perfect.
except for the white ceiling, of course

If I was blind I could still see you.
If I had no mind, my thoughts will still think of you.
Without legs I will be chasing you all over town until my arms become dead.
No lips but I will still yearn for your kiss.
Picture me without a face, yet grinning everytime you open your arms for my embrace.
What if I had no hands? I will still hold onto my every plan, to be your perfect man.
One day I will be without a heart; however, loving you like I did from the start.

Who? do you love
What? are you thinking
When? will I feel happy
Where? can I go
Why? am I here
How? can I change the world