Why is *** called making love
when there are so many other acts,
far less physical, far less cheap, than that?

The world reveals pristine, porcelain skin
over untouched and idle thoughts.
Undresses limbs over addressing morals,
Grips headboards over words,
Scrambles bedsheets over aspirations.

But fine, go ahead, call it love,
and wonder why young generations
grasp blindly at the concept
and consider themselves fools,
falling down again.

We live in a world of talkers,
Of shouters, of debaters, of know it alls.
Listening is a long extinct creature,
Unheard of by a species that has devolved to simply wait their turn to talk.
Conversations no longer flow like rivers,
Instead they are puddles:
Started, then abandoned to become bone dry.

We live in a world of talkers,
All raising their volume to be heard,
Shouting that their opinions are fact.
No being is exempt from the epidemic,
The infectious itch to crank the volume dial right
And scream that the other talkers are wrong.

We live in a world of talkers,
Of screamers, of bigots, of smart alecs
In a universe not made for this noise.
The voices get louder, the status updates get longer, the protests get deadlier.
We live in a world of talkers
And soon we will live in a world of mutes.

What strange solace it is
To be so loved by the impassioned insane
That they will curse a nameless no one
Only knowing the no one brought about pain

I laid my head down on my book
and heard a heartbeat
as though the spine had breath
and the words were alive.

Words tattoo memories and love stories,
make heroes out of commoners,
make monsters out of men.
Words twist love into lies.

Words are weapons
that live and last, breathe and beat.
For even when their maker dies,
the damnable have been written into immortality.

My head is floating and balance shaking
And my shell is cold to the touch.

The skin under my fingertips is tingling
And i cannot tell if it is the cold from the balcony thawing,
The rain dripping through the slats freezing,
Or the memory of your heart in my hands.  

I think of how tempting the offer is to climb
Into another and another and another man’s bed.
And so I charm and dangle my body and words,
Angled so they will drip into their open palms
And they will drink with reckless abandon.  

And I hear them still outside, words oozing in,
And I hear them devise plans of your demise
And I still hear you echoing endlessly in my ears
And somehow you win.

Or maybe it is the smoke still in my lungs that i carried back inside.