.                    .                               .                 .            
              ,                                  , ­                           ,
             /                                  /                               \                                 ­   .  
           /                                    a                               \                       
        ­   I                                cascade                        no                               .
        want                                of                 ­           wish                                 \   
       to see                              warm                         no                   
      a silent                            light                         prayer                                no
       choir                             radiate                         just                     .          thing          wave                              from                     ­       for                    /\           else
        and                                 the                             fun                   at           will
     curtsey                            corner                       candles             times         do
--------------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------------------

Typewriters are more romantic than
Leather journals and black pens.
But there's something about my cursive that feels like
I'm just writing unsent letters with love from my wrist
To you.
And to me
That's the biggest piece of my soul I have to offer.

Out of Greek myth, she
Glowed at the party and proved,
Stories I had told.

Even if I never
write another piece
of my garbage that I call
Poetry
I'm still a reader of such
and stagnant pieces
are just a *******
for contemptuous lust
and soul *******
forms part of the Universe
as such
I absolutely refuse
to read something
Untitled

It ***** me completely
that you can sit down
and completely unload
Emotions uncontainable
Not just on a page
Ink veins open and dripping
but by making your fingers move
making your brain communicate
with extremities can be
exhausting
and still you lay bare
-
all your nakedness
and angst
and your happiness
wrapped inside sadness

and refuse it a name?

What?

You think after you've aired
all your ***** laundry,
hung your intestines
out to dry, as you stitch together
the cavity that once held your heart
It's okay to simply expel your breath
take a look at what you wrote
and call it Art?
Even though its nameless?

I call it irresponsible
to that which you gave birth
and left it rotting in the ether
with no title to ground it to earth

As I grow older, Melody, my only Love,
I remember young desire
And thank my only God above.

It was you who made me croon,
Paw the dirt,
Howl at the moon,
And burn.

So it is as we are growing old:
You light the fires
Deep within
And stoke the flames
We've long been in.

I would not have another,
Wife,
Though hard has been our
Life.
I find you everywhere,
It seems...
Asleep, awake, you're there,
Girl of my dreams.