If lies are things off which they live
And they promise what they cannot give
They may wave her the reddest flag,
but to me, they’re glittering glass.
If magicians they be, I stand gawking;
Turning somethings into nothing,
Hiding pennies up their arms—
But I’m sure they gave me the moon and the stars.
A peek in their magic cupboards,
All their secrets, mercilessly uncovered
And I wish for nothing more
Than to be just a little dumber
To better appreciate my generous lover.

Your non-sense making love,
Your fist-breaking love--
Hungry vulture in the shape of a dove.
Your shallow pool illusion;
Many a hesitant diver
Overcame fear and dove.

A fall leaf trying to catch its tree—
“Okay, I guess—I’ll see you next week.”
The season plunges cold.
Faint wave goodbye;
The drum of double-doors
beats to your depart.
Conversation is a dying art.

It starts with an R,
or maybe an I?
A nebulous cluster
in the murk of my mind—
a desperate swipe;
they orbit my hand.
My journey starts
all over again.
Revise, reproduce—
induce, per use?
(My impatient acquaintance
taps his foot—
someone my age
should know this word.)
But I do, I’ve used it
a million times—
that’s right! I’ve got it—!
“Improvise!”

Stalking your cage
in circumscribe—
I notice your door
gleams ajar in the light.
“You’ve been out again,”
I reprimand,
“warming your feathers
in the sun of a man
who will take you for granted;
they don’t understand
what I’d do for you.”
(Hinges scream shut,
alarmed by the cue.
Globular black eyes,
twin pin-****** of tar
stare at me, unblinking;
This has gone too far.
I’d squeeze them right out
of your birdie head—
my heart was your marble;
it’s my turn, instead.)
But the impulse is nil,
a mellow chill.
I would never do that
of my own true will—
And the use of this cage,
I now clearly see
Is to keep monsters like you
from monsters like me.

How is it that every day—
that every, single day—
I leave your presence,
and feel that there is more to be desired?
How is it that I run away,
craving the thrill of heart-play—
leave your presence,
and feel that there is more to be desired?
How is it that I cry and lay—
staring across some foggy bay,
plan mind-caresses
and await the passing of two days?
How is it that every day—
that every, single day—
I leave your presence,
and feel that there is more to be desired;
when heavy-hearted that someday—
a near, eminent, creeping day—
you'll be happy with another,
and it won't matter, anyway?
When I offer my hand to you, smiling;
you slip the ring onto another's;
a vase breaks—
and I'm left at the altar
of a wedding I was never invited to
and know that there is more to be desired?

Your "love", a fertile patch, grows
Flowers for my sick head--
Lilies for the foot of my bed;
A fragrant blanket for my grave.