Summertime
Hot days
Warm nights
No pain 'cause it numbs
But opposes frostbite
I become numb from the sun
The salt
The sea
As the summer comes around
I bring back the old me
But I'll bring back the old you
If you give me one chance
One wave
One smile
One look
One glance
One hit from my pipe
One sip from my bottle
Relax, live the moment
Always follow that motto

He
Would like this poem
Its short and clean and simple
Nothing frilly or bright or extravagant

He
Is the reason for so many smiles

He
Protects me like a taco on a cold hard floor

He
Encourages me and eats pasta with me

He
Judges tattoos, analyzes photographs, listens to my qualms

He
Shows me skateboarding

He
Is wonderful

He
Is taken

I
Have no idea what to do.

It is Autumn, once again,
my
favorite season,
and again,
the leaves turn by way of the wind,
in colours of palettes,
around my aloneness again

I look long down the avenue,
the street,
the sidewalk, the trees,
I wish
I could watch myself wandering,
with someone
I love
     in the breeze,
but,
this again is uncertain
as my cigarette lifts
in this crisp
Autumn air...

     my aloneness has gathered here.

with no one to talk to
and
no plan as to where i should go,
i fall into a listless,
waking slumber
and
feel covered up in cold.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.

Though I have been in many a land,
There is naught else in living.

And I would rather have my sweet,
Though rose-leaves die of grieving,

Than do high deeds in Hungary
To pass all men’s believing.

XXII

When our two souls stand up ***** and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curved point,—what bitter wrong
Can the earth do to us, that we should not long
Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher,
The angels would press on us and aspire
To drop some golden orb of perfect song
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay
Rather on earth, Beloved,—where the unfit
Contrarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.