Dear Gentlemen,
May I share with you a secret?
Some of you have already known,
some might overlook it.

No matter what your Lady says,
she loves it when you call her.

Her "If you're busy it's ok" is really not ok.
Your "I'm too busy to call" is definitely not ok.

No matter how busy you are,
you can always make time for your beloved.

A phone call, even with no conversational substance,
makes her believe you two are closer.

A phone call, even just a quick "I just miss you that's all",
strengthens her devotion.

A phone call, every now and then,
lets her known she is on your mind,
reminds her of you,
makes the sense of togetherness shine through.

So, Gentlemen,
no matter how much poetry you have written for her,
how much love you dedicate to her,
how many flower bouquets you send her,
every now and then, do yourself a favor,
put everything else aside (no multitasking!)
to call her on the phone.

If you are married,
call from work.
If you share the same place,
call from outside.
If you meet way too often,
call when you do not.

The more frequent your name appears on her little screen,
in her smart, love-coated mind,
The more grossly exaggerated your time of devotion will be.

Dear Ladies,
sorry that I slipped out our secret.
It just ***** not hearing that special ringtone
(you know, the one only his calls make)
a little more often,
doesn't it?

Agreement to Romance
No contract/ signatures
For the shared love of love,
they were brought together.

Defined by liberty,
he needs some space from her.
One day she crossed the line -
agreement was over.*

Yet she hides it from him,
and very well indeed.
She keeps the way she is
with charming words of wit.

He needs the privacy
she wants the true love's touch
They love the fantasies,
an adrenaline rush.

Behind the door she lives
is the absence of his.
He never stays the night,
sometimes forgets to kiss.

She sometimes wondered why
his scent vanished like dust.
They succumb to romance,
right between love and lust.

He still does not know how
she keeps him in her heart.
For if he did, oh my,
they would break far apart.

Agreement to Romance
we've all been there and lost.
The taste of full freedom
comes with too high a cost.

underground held a slam poetry contest.
they drew me from the crowd,
"wanna be the judge? hold your score cards,
the poets would soon get here."

I was sitting on one of those chairs,
front row, facing the competitors.
oh how young they were, glasses and what not,
distressed jeans, leather boots,
some had strange bracelets and weird tattoos.
and some looked just like me,
eager for a show of the best of arts.

"this is exciting" "no ****. a friend brought me here,
never been to a slam show."
that guy next to me was even more excited than I,
he frantically slipped through his stack of cards, asking me,
"how picky are you? you like poetry? how do you decide on a ten?"
I said, "a ten is one that makes me **** my pants",
to which he shut up.

slam
the performance of the words, the rhythm, the rhymes,
metaphors and the like were dropped like fire,
I tried to catch them but a few I missed.
didn't need to make sense,
for they were so good.
I just sat there and kept drawing my ten's.
I could hear the guy next to me mumbling,
"now that starts to smell real bad."
I gracefully turned to him and said, "thank you."

have you been to a slam poetry contest?
it is like a festival of *******, except
you could only use your mouth, and some
body gestures perhaps. it became good,
when one poet started to create illusions and reality
with a story about one guy waking up constantly
like me, who kept running into the vicious circle
of daily mundanes and forgettable details.
to listen and watch him was to see poetry at its rawest best
posing itself ****.

underground poets, here I came to give you
my stack of ten's. for you have created
such lively, dedicated
recollections of my world.

I did not try to forget you.

At the end of my day,
as I was crashing on my bed,
your voice was resounding in my head,
Don't fall asleep in your work clothes.

The scent of food you made in my kitchen
the aroma of your face, after-shave
the angle your lips formed with a smile
the long fingers tracing down my face
- they were still there,
as if you'd never gone away.

Why are you still thinking about him?
He wasn't worth it
Of course he was, the whole time we spent together.
Lovers know best how long is forever.
Those moments I had with him,
he was worth every one of them.

The streets, the highways, the mountains, the sea
Rain, snow, winds, moon, sunrises, sunsets
We walked, we ran, we drove, we flew through them all.
Until now I cannot get used to the emptiness
of my hands.

The blinds of my window haven't changed,
you said you liked them, for they blocked
glances from those highly unwelcome.
Thus when we made love, they were never up.

They have remained there after you left.
Glances vanished,
and so did the sun.  

And so did my attempt
to forget everything about you.
It does not concern me whether you are here.
To me you are a matter of fact.
To me you are intact.
To me you love me still.

in the swollen summer days, the pressure
of what is coming to an end, the silent chaos
of the surroundings, and
the strange comfort of the new wind
completely took over everything else.
hence the slow details of day-to-day occurrences.

for there seemed to be no transition between day and night,
and light was slowly dipping into darkness,
and darkness was gently unfolding on light.

the intertwined arrays of sunshine on the clouds,
the fading sunset,
the smoke fondling the moon
all happened. all vanished.

when the eyes closed and opened
they anticipated the same thing,
and so they were served.

the aftertaste of a night's vivid creations was sweet
like honey
subtle
like tea
and lasting
like memories that were created to haunt for a lifetime.

what was remembered and
what was forgotten
all blended together.

thus past wounds were healed,
laughs were concealed behind lips,
and time was dissolved into air
to sink them all, to rise them all,
to sew fantasies seamlessly into reality.

and maybe the dream would last,
from the juxtaposition of breath to breath,
into eternity.

He said, "I only knew of one way to love you, and it
was not how you wanted it. What could we do
not to let go of everything we've had?"

And I cried
for not knowing the answer as I
always did. I wanted
no one else but him, I remembered
every second we shared. My eyes
were forever locked in the direction of his.

Events change against our will, taking us
away from where we want to be, what we dream together, and
other secrets between two lovers.

Every moment would play in my mind
over and over like a shameless promotion
of "everything you've ever wanted"
yet when you make the call,
"everything" is now out of stock.

Every night I woke up
to the empty side of my bed,
the empty void in my heart, knowing
they would always belong to him.

If we must move on
how would I even begin
talking laughing kissing loving
the way I did with him in my life?
How would I forgo my habits
that fit perfectly with his?
How would I forget his name
written on my soul and body?