Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because
when you’re hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you’re flush pride keeps

you from the pawn shop and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down

on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity

i hate you

paint me with all those messy colors and broken brushes.
paint me with your rough hands and scrappy fingertips.
paint me with all your love and your regrets.
paint me in a dark room with uneven breath.
paint me with dried out lips and the tip of your tongue
paint me all night till you're halted by the sun.

If I can touch the heart and soul
of just one questing mind;
respond unto impassioned call
of questions unrefined,

then shall my feeble efforts be
rewarded quite enough,
and force my inner doubt to flee
without fear of rebuff.

If I have brought the regiment
of inner doubt or fear,
to rage or hate or merriment
by words that I hold dear

Then I may finally reveal
what held me in distress
and I may come at last to feel
an undeserved bliss.

She was the unfinished puzzle
She was the guitar with broken strings
She was the meadow stripped of green
She was the crooked table of support
She was the inner voice of reason

She was the dream forgotten leaving a shadow of frustration
She was the rush of a fresh storm promising heavy rain
She was the ever-changing bricks in a decaying building
She was the wrecking ball extinguishing it from existence

She was the heaven-sent false prophet
She was the flower ripped from its stem
She was the blank pages of a neglected book
She was the dust covering all abandoned objects
She was the frustration in desire

She was the locked door
She was the vacant room
She was the thought with no voice
She was not love

Jan folded the letter
running a finger
along its crease.

She looked up-
someone  was
explaining functionality
€‹She stared at
the new argument
€on the white board

then returned to the letter-
the fold
the plane
pressing and creasing
vertices meeting
corners peaking.

Sighing:

His orientation obvious,
they were now mismatched.
Incongruent
she rose
and left the room.
There would be many such
lessons.

Tommy Carroll
redrafted

She lost it

The one thing that made her happy

And she lost it.

She cries
Every
Night

For it

And starts funds

And cries for help

And writes poetry

And you have the audacity

To be bored

With her pain?

How dare you?

"Is she done yet"

"That is so last month"

"Like I would give money to a legal reject"

Help her.

Don't hate her.

Prey, help her poor soul
Can't you tell she's drowning?