Oh, how heavy a heart must be,
alone, adrift in some sea.
The only direction lives in the black,
giving names to the stars,
as if they are the new gods.
Forever still and unmoving
as the single constant,
in a world of crashing currents,
from this sea, to the plates under the pavement,
that the greatest cities are built upon.
And even still it is only the photograph,
which lovers name after each other,
and sailors follow home.
These new gods are dead at first imagining,
as all gods before and those yet to come.
Their light defying their demise for millions of years,
to give a look back in time.
Though one must still live, in the present,
a last survivor against the vaccum of space and time,
burning up to the heavens, as Rilke wrote.
And so it is this hope that something lives on,
amongst the burnt out graveyard,
that weighs upon the heavy heart.
As it recognizes the universal inevitability of an end,
but can't help to think otherwise.

The streetlights are our friends,
and I'm getting to know the grooves of your palm well.
Bathing for mere moments in pools,
of flickering purity.
What we know in the day is shadowed skylines,
alleys darker than the last,
and I am tracing your outline with my eyes.
The longing is out on the sidewalks,
of all restless souls, huddled in doorways,
breathing ash,
and I am focusing on the sound of your footsteps.
The wind bites bitter and it's us in the doorway.
It is our longing like gravity between us,
breathing in your breath leaves
a better taste in my mouth.
And I am tracing your outline with my hands,
but the moon is in the gutter,
and I can't see your face tonight.

You were born into this,
grown into this,
engulfed and swallowed by this.
Oppression of your being,
soul-crushing down unto you,
with the burdens and pain,
of a thousand years past,
with a thousand years' hopes
and trials and failures and retrials.
You are bred into this from conception,
moving forever forwards into their backwards.
Your lovers and your guardians the same,
marching ever slowly opposite in time.
Pushing you to the fates they never sealed,
sealing your own in the doing so.
Born into this
A constant struggle of want versus need,
of love versus hate,
life vers death.
Born into this
Becoming this that you fear
Becoming this which erases what you are,
what you once were,
what you were meant to be.
You were born for this.
You were created for this.
You are the beginning and end,
of the never ending cycle,
of those since past,
and those without future.
You were bred into this,
and you will breed more of this unlife,
and they too will be born into this.

I saw her the night before,
holding back tears, pretending,
everything was going to be,
fine.
She told me she had something for me,
in the trunk of her car, and I,
never looked.
I told her I loved her
and barely made it out the door.
Next morning, sitting in grass, they told me,
and I thought, I'd never known someone to die.
And when we all came together to remember,
praising the name Gloria,
my aunt read a poem, and the church,
overflowed with people,
wearing matching
t-shirts.
And when it was all over,
the pastor shook my hand and said,
I looked
sharp.

The first time I kissed you,
you turned from looking at a sunset.
My heart a thousand pounds in my chest,
my lips probably a little too wide, but you didn't mind.
And maybe that's why I became so hooked.
On your willingness and ability,
to teach me.
Just a kid who thought he knew everything,
until he tried to know you.
But it was simple then, yet new,
and we held onto it for a summer.
The smell of you on my clothes,
lingered long and welcome,
a comforting reminder that I was falling in love,
with a girl who made my lips ache, night after night,
in some theater, showing some film,
we really didn't want to see.

Stand strong and tall,
old lamppost.
Stand holy and unforgiving.
A nuisance to young teen
lovers,
groping in their parents' cars

Savior to the children,
extending their parklife,
as so they may not face
age and life,
for another hour or so.

And know if your bulb ever runs out,
I'll warn the women
to stay out of the park,
after dark.

1 AM on a Monday night
driving somewhere to somewhere.
No curfew, no plan, no problem.
No plan, no future, no hope
               no plan.
No tomorrow only tonight,
only the sounds of night and
chills of wind.
Hair standing this is me at my most alert
                                             my most clear
                                             my most awake
                                             my most alive

1:01 AM on a Monday night.
Not sure if I'm looking forward to
the next one.
Another day, another week
of no hope, no future
no future, but to be back here
(wherever here is)
With no plans,
no plans but you.

No money, no god, no tomorrow
hardly a now even.