Before guns wore make-up,
We used to put pennies in our socks
So we’d always walk on the root of all evil.

Now Wall Street angels frolic through satellite clouds borrowed
from youths educated by universities of smoke and plastic bags.
                  
(The tears of a child are homage to the waning gods)
For in a day not far away,
Over the painted moon of the Morning Son,
The sun will rise wearing the finest war scars money can buy.

And the screams of humanity will be heard from Venus,
Forgetting that the reciprocal of   L-I-V-E   itself  is     E-V-I-L
And perhaps death is the life meant to be lived.

I stand above my bed
And examine the damage.
Blankets this way and that
Pillows all over
Sheets tangled up around themselves.
Proof of something that
Only hours ago
Left this place empty.
I take in the rubble
And breathe deeply.
I lower myself down to those
Tangled sheets
And backwards bedspreads
And fill my lungs with you.
I pull them up around me
And close my eyes
And wish for this place to be
The same kind of battleground
Again tomorrow.

He that loves a rosy cheek,
      Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
      Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
      Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combin’d,
      Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

No tears, Celia, now shall win
      My resolv’d heart to return;
I have search’d thy soul within,
      And find nought, but pride, and scorn;
I have learn’d thy arts, and now
Can disdain as much as thou.
Some power, in my revenge, convey
That love to her I cast away.

Candle brims and faint light
Let it keep you alive
Fall in love with the passing night
It's acceptable to dream up your deaths
These potential slumbers won't bring rest

I wish I slept
and dreamt of lanterns in grass
Everything in my view is on fire
Full of abiding, dangerous desire

It's not my pulse that's pounding
My passion is what's thriving
I hammer the beauty so forcefully
I should recognize this morbidity
To my being it's life,
not the finale
It's the soft breaths you take involuntarily
Peaceful.

I hope death holds this illumination.

Pretentious
you stumble, heeding
terra cotta voices and
the sigh of broken chimes.
Disbelieving
you fall,
a sybil breathing rime-
for visions have a price
and you too must taste the salt.
Flounder
my pretty,
for time has bought your emnity
The blossom of your beauty
a weathervane of trust.

Poems need not be sad
Or angry or mad
With endless lines that go on and on and on and on and on about broken homes an broken hearts
And false starts
That painfully chart
The awkward writer
From darker to brighter...

No, instead they can start
With a poetry ****
Pure expression, release
Once out they bring peace
Just put words on a page
Don’t think, just engage
They don’t have to be long
And they don’t even have to be rhythmically strong
Short or ugly or loud,
Will do just fine, that’s allowed
As long as you write
With all of your might
Let go
Of the words
Let them flow!

Get rid of what’s stuck
In a head full of muck
Let them out and they’ll bake
You a metaphorical cake
That does what you need it to do
Even if it’s not good enough for a national poetry competition because the scansion’s all wrong

Back, in years long gone
still plays a broken waltz
Three steps through a pitch black room
and back.
Gently, we moved through the heat 
and the dark, heavy air was sweet with our breath
and purple with our touch

Tick tock tick
the dance is new.
It beats around the room
and we can't keep up
with the rhythm
that refuses to be learned.
It shivers and shakes
we cannot help but sway, stumble
we break away.

Purple, deep and haunting
wraps us in a soft embrace
as we wander, alone,
through forgotten days
and back

When lilac perfume crept between us
there was comfort in the thick scent of summer
but even that, like a half-remembered sun
could not pierce this dark

Now, as the rain scrolls by the window
and the fading light trembles,
three small flowers in a vase
nod to a half-forgotten tune.
Muffled, it plays on,
an echo in the shadow
of a clock long gone
and I remember the smell of lilacs
a waltz
and dancing in a pitch black room